Angel of Stone
by Marius blowthebaricade
Summary: Before he was the strong, passionate, and fearless warrior of the Revolution, the loyal servant of France, and the great leader of the Friends of the ABC, Enjolras was a child. In Victor Hugo's great masterpiece "Les Miserables," we never learn anything of Enjolras's youth or of the past that made him the charming young man who was capable of being terrible.
1. Chapter 1

PART I

Creating a Rebel

The year was 1790. In southern France, in the town of Uzès, there was an area that had been caught between the country and the village. There were houses and shops, but the houses were farther spread apart than a city, and short stretches of green grass divided them each. There were streets, but the pavement was cracked, there were ruts in the roads, and grass and weeds broke out from between the stones and grew in the streets. Just beyond this settlement, there was a meadow of tall, green grass, colorful wildflowers, and plants that trembled with happiness as the wind blew over the meadow. Beyond this there was a green forest, blooming in the splendor of summer, swaying merely in the breeze, singing with the joyful song of the birds, who sang endlessly with high, clear, and beautiful voices. Across from the meadow, there was the large house of a man loyal to the King of France and disdainful to the Revolution. Within this house there lived a man named Jacques M. Enjolras.

The man was rich. Very rich. He was an only child, born into a rich family, and when his parents died, he received all of their inheritance. He had no need to obtain a job, no need to work, no need to trouble himself with the struggles of life. He was rich, proud, arrogant, and selfish. He looked down on the world, on Paris, on the streets, and on the poor with dignity, with pride, and with superiority. He held his head high, deeming himself better than the word. He thought this is rightful and earned place. God had placed him above it all, and so he thought himself a king, the world his slave. Never once, did he turn his head to glance upon the poor, the homeless, and the miserable with anything but smug pride. Never pity, never compassion, never mercy. He was selfish, greedy, and he had a heart like stone. He clung to his money, he kept it, worshiped it, and wasted it.

He called himself a Christian, he attended Sunday services at church, but this was for his statues not for his faith. If, indeed, he believed that there was a God, at all, he did not trust Him. He may have believed that He was existent, but he did not believe _in_ Him. He did not believe in anything.

The man took great pride and delight in enjoying the pleasures of the life that had been made for a "deserving man" such as he. He kept several mistresses, enjoyed them, used them, and abandoned them. He told women that he loved them, and then he left them. He wasted and lost much of his fortune gambling, hoping to make a handsome franc, and losing everything. Even more, his money was devoured as he used it to purchase alcohol. The man was a sinner, a liar, a gambler, a libertine, a drinker, and on more nights than less, he became drunk. He was proud, dishonest, selfish, greedy, sinful, lustful, and terrible. He was a dreadful man, a horrible Christian, a wretched sinner, and worse beyond this all, he was a terrible father.

The disaster came about in the year of 1809. Unwed to the woman who became pregnant with his child, the father of this young girl pleased with Jacques to marry her. She was a very pretty girl: long, blond, and curly hair that fell down her back, blew in the wind, and glowed white in the sun; smooth, fair skin, pure and white; fine, white teeth; long, elegant lashes; big brown eyes; rosy cheeks; and the face of an angel. Her father was rich, and the old man agreed to give Jacques much profit if he took in his daughter as his wife. Because of these two things, the girl's beauty and her father's money, and because the girl was carrying his child, Jacques agreed.

He married the woman, she became his wife, and she lived with him in his fine house before the meadow. This did not, however, stop him from bringing in other mistresses and enjoying their company, as well. It did not take long for his wife to discover this, and when she protested against this absurd behavior, Jacques, intoxicated by alcohol and brutal in nature, struck her across the face, screamed at her, and shouted, "I am your husband! I took you in, woman! You do not speak out to me! You respect me! Do you understand!? Or I will send you and that little bastard you're carrying away to suffer and starve on the streets!" He said this after striking his young wife, who was pregnant with a baby.

She immediately fell away, scrambled backward, and curled up in a corner against a wall, trying get away and trying to hide from him. As he screamed at her, she was shocked, confused, and terrified. She held a hand to her face where he had struck her, tears rolled down her cheeks, her heart raced in her chest, her body trembled, and all she knew was utter fear. She did not speak out to him anymore. She was afraid of him.

In the June of the year 1810, the child was born. A son. He was so small, so innocent, and so beautiful. He looked so astonishingly much like his mother. The only difference was his eyes, which had come from his father. Blue, clear, pure, mysterious blue, like the sky before sunset, just as the day is fading away and just before the night is falling upon the earth. The mother called him an angel from Heaven. Indeed, he looked as if he was the child of an angel.

The mother of this boy, came from a rich family. While indeed, she had made a mistake when she had been deceived by Jacques and when she had slept with him, at heart, she was not a bad woman. She was a good woman. She was good, virtuous, kind, gentle, compassionate, and righteous at heart. She was pure until Jacques had corrupted her.

When the baby boy was born to her, she loved him with all of her heart, his mind, her body, her soul, and her entire being. She would have done anything for him. She would have given her only life to protect him, to shelter him, to comfort him, and to love him. Because of the sleeping baby in her arms, she was happier than she had ever been in all of her life.

No other can understand the love that a mother holds for her child. She who carries the baby, who brings him into the world, who raises him, and who loves him, only this woman can know the sweet, joyous splendor that comes for loving her child.

Yet, with this new joy for the child, came a new fear, was well. She was so much greater afraid of her husband now, because she knew that he would hurt the child. Jacques did not love his son, just as he did not love his wife. He detested them both, as a bother, as a burden, as something that he would have been better off without. He frequently yelled at his wife, he made her work hard, he made her his slave, he threatened her, and sometimes, when he was drunk, he hit her and abused her. She knew that, if given the chance, he would strike the child, as well.

She was right. Sometimes, when the baby would cry, Jacques, drunk and enraged, would leap to his feet, screaming, snarling, slamming things, and breaking things. He would strike the woman, threaten her, scream at her to shut-up her good-for-nothing rat, and swear to her that if she could not silence the child, he would silence it himself.

So, she hid her son from him. She kept him upstairs away from him, she raised him by herself, she cared for him, and she loved him. When he was a baby, she nursed him, she held him in her arms, she kept him close to her always, she rocked him to sleep, she sang to him as he slept, and she kissed his precious head. She named her son without telling her husband. Jacques never knew the name of his child. He never cared.

As the boy began to grow, the woman taught him to speak, to walk, to smiled, and to laugh. She taught him about God and about His Son, the Lord, she read him the Bible, and on Sunday mornings, she brought him to church. When he was old enough, she taught him to read and to write. She taught him the things that he would need to know to one day become a fine young man. She taught him to be good, kind, companionate, merciful, forgiving, patient, respectful, honorable, virtuous, and pure. He listened to her, he respected her, he was obedient to her, and he loved her. The child loved his mother as greatly as she loved him. She was the only person whom he ever loved.

The child learned all of the things that his mother taught him. He was all of these things. Except for one. Even with the teachings of his mother and even as he strove to obey her, it was hard for him to forgive. He could never forgive his father.

Under his mother's guidance, the child Enjolras grew into a fine young boy. Even as a child, he was respectable, good, and very handsome. He looked just like his mother: long, flowing, curls of blonde hair that glowed in the sun like a hallow around his angelic face; skin, fair, smooth, and flawless, like marble; pure, virgin lips the color of a pale rose; and a handsome, beautiful, and angelic face. The only difference was his eyes. She loved him, she adored him, and she was proud of him. But her son growing up was not all such a good thing. No longer an infant, he no longer remained locked away upstairs away from his father.

When the boy was still hardly five years of age, his father began to abuse him. It happened one day that the child Enjolras was upstairs in his room. His mother was downstairs confronting his father, and Enjolras was waiting for her, like she had told him to do. As he sat on the floor, anticipating her to return, he heard an angry, thunderous, terrible voice begin to scream from downstairs. He knew that it was his father. At once, the child was terrified. Not for himself, but for his mother.

Without another thought, Enjolras jumped to his feet, went out of his room, hurried down the stairs, and ran into the room where he found his father screaming at, threatening, and hitting his mother, who was curled up in the corner against a wall, trying to get away from the monster abusing her. Sudden fear stole the boys heart, but with it, anger and fury. Then, crying out like a grown man rather than a five-year-old child, Enjolras shouted at his father and commanded him, "Leave my mother alone!"

Both the mother and the father shocked and confused, they turned their heads and looked across the room to see their son standing in the door way. At once, his mother's face went white and was over come in utter fear. Jacques's face twisted in hideous, outrage, fury, and wrath. He hardly saw his son ever, and now, he found himself looking at his own child, five years of age, who was standing before him, glaring at him with blazing fire in his blue eyes, and ordering him to do something. Jacques took a murderous step away from his wife and toward his son. "What's that you say, boy!?" he snarled at his son.

The child did not recoil. He did not flinch. He did not even look afraid. "I said leave my mother alone," he repeated himself, just as boldly, and his father could not believe his own ears.

"Baby... Sweetheart..." the terrified mother whispered to her child, desperately, fearfully, pleadingly. "Baby, go back upstairs. Mommy will be there soon..."

"He was hurting you," Enjolras said, for the first time in his life disobeying his mother. "I will not let him hurt you."

He had barely finished saying these words before his father thundered across the room toward him, already rising his hand to strike him, and a moment later, Jacques's fist slammed into the boy's face. This was the first time that Jacques hit his son.

Enjolras fell backward and to the ground, stunned, shocked, confused, and dazed. Before he had time even to fully perceive what had happened, his father was upon him, standing overtop of him, screaming in his face, already raising a fist to strike the boy again. Enjolras let out a loud cry as his father and pain hit him again, throbbing through his face and trembling through his skull. For several terrible moments, this room was filled with the horrible sounds of the child crying in pain and fear, of the father screaming at him in fury, and of the mother, on her feet and pulling at her husband's shoulders trying to restrain him, pleading for him to stop hurting her son.

At last, when seeing the chance, the woman threw herself between her son and her husband, and Jacques, already in mid-attack, struck her across her face with his heavy fist. She let out a stifled gasp and stumbled a step backward, but she did not fall. For a moment, she saw her beautiful son on the floor behind her, panting, trembling, crying, his cheek pressed against the wooden floor, his eyes tightly shut, his precious face already swelling and bruising, and a thin stream of blood coming out from his nose. At once, fear, sadness, and pain stole this mother's heart away from her, this heart that beat only for her child. Seeing her little boy like this was a blow more painful than any physical strike that her husband could have inflicted upon this woman.

She quickly turned back to him and raised her tear-filled eyes to look up into the red and furious face and the maddened and crazed eyes of the man. Looking at this man was like looking into the face of a wild beast ready to kill, to devour, to destroy. "Jacques, please, stop it," she whimpered in horror as tears ran down her face. "Leave him alone; he is only a boy!"

"Yes, he is only a boy!" Jacques thundered in the woman's face, steeping toward her as if to strike her again. Perhaps, he considered it. "And I am his father! He will listen to me, and he will obey me, and he will respect me, or he will be sent out of the street, or you hear me woman!?"

"Yes… Yes… Yes, I understand," the woman whispered as the man continued to snarl, "If you want to live in this house, woman, you will keep that little bastard of yours under control! Do you understand!? He got off easy this time! The next time, his punishment will be much worse! Do you understand me!?"

"Yes, I understand," she whispered again, trying to blink the tears out of her eyes.

Jacques glared murderously at his wife for a moment longer, wild hate and rage in his eyes, as if he was contemplating whether or not to strike her again. He turned his eyes to look at the child behind her, and his face became even more hideous in his fury, as if he was contemplating whether or not to kill him. At last, he turned abruptly away from them both and ordered, "Get that thing out of my sight."

Immediately, anxious to hold her child in the protection of her arms again, the mother went to Enjolras and kneeled down beside him. "Baby," she whispered softly, and with the gentle touch of a mother's hand she lightly stroked the back of his head, brushing her fingers through his curly blonde hair. At once, upon feeling his mother's touch, the child raised his eyes to her, and when he saw her, he reached out his arms to her and went to her, wrapping his little arms around her, burying his face against her chest, hiding himself in her warmth and love. For a brief moment, the mother pulled the child into a tight embrace and held him close to her, relief coming into her heart, tears running down her cheeks and the child's. But she knew that she could not hold him for long, as Jacques was still upon them. "Baby," she said softly into the child's ear, "go upstairs and wait for me. I will be there soon."

Still clinging to his mother as tightly as he could, his face still buried in her bosom, he whispered, "I do not want to leave you."

A pang of fear struck the mother's heart, and she looked over her shoulder to see if Jacques had heard this. He had. The man was looking now at the child with such merciless hatred and disgrace that, for a moment, the woman feared that he was going to attack the child again… Or kill him. She turned suddenly away from Jacques, pulled the child away from her, and looked into his eyes. "Go upstairs," she said to him again, this time firmly, ordering him to obey her. "Go now. I will be there soon."

Enjolras did not want to leave his mother alone with this terrible man, this monster, this horrible thing called his father, but he was obedient to his mother. Reluctantly, tears still in his eyes, the boy nodded to her, released her, glanced fearfully at his father, and hurried away. Just as he was leaving the room, he heard his father declare in outrage, "Woman, what is the matter with you!? You are not raising a child! You are creating a rebel!"


	2. Chapter 2

PART II

The Child

When she hurried into the room, Jacques as slumped upon the couch, a hideous expression upon his red face, smoldering fury in his bloodshot eyes, a close-to-empty bottle clinched tightly in his hand. He was, as usual, drunk. His intoxication and his anger would make him now even more than usual dangerous and wild, possessed and crazed, reckless and furious. She knew this, but she did not care. Without hesitating another moment, she went across the room to approach him.

"Where is he?" she demanded, at once her voice, cold and stern, grave and urgent, anxious and fearful. As she strode toward him, she went bold and brave as if she had no fear of this man, at all. As if she was not afraid of what he could do to her. This woman was terrified but also courageous, a slave but also a warrior, a prisoner but also leader, a wife but also a mother. As soon as she reached Jacques, and he was turning irately to look at her, she asked him, "Where is my son?"

Turning up his face that was twisting with anger, wild with drunkenness, red from fury and from the consumption of too much alcohol, smeared with dirt and with grim, unshaven and unclean, Jacques was made several times more repulsive and more terrifying than he was on usual occasions. If that were possible. "Woman!" he snarled at her in disgust. "I do not know where that rebellious bastard of yours has gotten off to! Run off, again, has he!? Woman, why can you not keep the wretch under control!?"

Now, Jacques was rising unsteadily to his feet, clutching his bottle tightly in one hand and with the other hand pointing a furious and accusing figure at his wife. She, however, did not recoil. Planting her feet firmly upon the floor, she stood before him, raised his voice, and snapped, "Did you hurt him, Jacques? Did you hurt him!?"

"Woman, I never touched your brat!" Jacques roared.

At once, her face changed with disbelief and with disgust, and she cried out in anger, yelling back at him, "You except me to believe you!? Jacques, I see you hitting him everyday! He's not your slave; he's your son! You better stop it! Stop hitting my son!"

Now this woman and her husband were standing before each other, both of them standing at their full heights trying to be stronger than the other. They were both as strong and unwavering as a statue of stone, as brave and bold as a soldier. When his wife declared these words, speaking out against her husband, rebelling against him just as her son rebelled against him, Jacque's face contorted into a hideous disfigurement of wild rage, and he took a furious step toward her, as if her were ready to strike her… or to kill her. "Do not speak to me, woman!" he thundered. "Unless you want to be out on the street along with your rebel of a child, you will respect me and obey me! Do you understand!?"

At this man's words, this mother's heart seemed to suddenly empty and become hallow, and then dread and fear filled this emptiness, as she thought of being forced to live out on the street with her son, unable to provide for him or to give him the protection of a home. She knew that if she could not object to Jacques, again. It would do not good. It would only make matters worse for her and for her son. But even as she thought these things, she was thinking of her son and of the injustice that her husband put him through, and she was unable to stop herself from clinching her teeth and hissing at him, "You do not respect either of us, why should we respect you!?"

She had barely finished saying these words when Jacque's fist made contact with her face. The blow hit her so suddenly that for a moment she could do nothing but stumbled backward, clutching at her face, and gasping for breath. Jacques did not even give her a moment to recover when he came at her again, charging her like a madman. This time, the woman recoiled and quickly backed away. Jacques opened his mouth to yell at her and raised his hand to strike her again, but then another voice spoke out instead.

In the midst of a battle, terrifying, treacherous, terrible, guns are firing, bullets flying, cannons blasting, men shouting, crying, screaming, people falling, blood bursting into the sky with each explosion, turning the rivers red, running down the pavement, and sinking into the earth, the air itself suffocates a man, as it is impossible to breathe, because it is poisoned by thick black smoke and the sickening stench of death, men are falling, bleeding, screaming, and dying. In the midst of all of this, the leader of the army must remain calm and give orders to his followers, tell them to stay strong, not to lose hope, to push forward, to continue to fight. This man must remain strong even in the face of danger, of blood, of suffering, and of death. He raises his voice over the gunfire, the cannons, the screams of the dying men, and he shouts out to his people in a voice that is strong and unwavering, as if he was unaffected by all of the horrors that he is witnessing around him. Such was the nature of the voice that cried out now. It seemed calm but powerful at the same time, even but strong, perhaps afraid but courageous all the while. This was the voice of a man—a boy—who was not afraid to stand in the face of danger, who would not remain silent in the face of injustice, who was not afraid to challenge a tyrant even if the consequences were terrible, who was willing to make sacrifices for something that he loved.

"Jacques!"

Upon hearing this voice, Jacques and the woman turned their heads. A third person had entered the room. A young man with flowing hair of gold, fair skin, beautiful blue eyes, and a handsome but stone-like, hard and cold, face was now standing just beyond the entrance of the doorway. He seemed young, but there was a certain knowing in his eye that would make one think, rather, that this boy was already a man. A child's eyes are bright, happy, carefree, and youthful; they do not know pain, or hardship, or suffering. The eyes of this boy were dark, joyless, cold, and hard; they were the eyes of a man who had already seen the cruelty of the world. This boy was twelve years of age.

As soon as this mother saw her son, her heart warmed in relief and dropped in fear at the same time. She looked at Enjolras for a moment, her mouth gaped slightly, and she looked back at Jacques, now knowing without doubt that her husband had been hurting her son. Enjolras's face had been badly beaten, and the bruises left behind were proof of this. Around his left eye was swollen and blackened, his cheekbone under this eye bruised, and the inter part around the blue color was red as if a corner of his eye was filled with blood.

Suddenly forgetting Jacques, the woman turned away from him and went to her son. As soon as she got to Enjolras, she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close to her, embracing him tightly and holding him as she used to when he was a small child. Now, however, Enjolras did not cling to her for protection and comfort but continued to stand stiffly like a soldier, only weakly raising his arms to return his mother's embrace. "Where have you been?" his mother cried in a strained whisper as she held her son firmly, refusing to loosen her grip on him or let him go. "Are you alright? Baby, you are hurt! Why didn't you—"

"Where have you been!?" Enjolras and his mother, who was reluctantly releasing her son, turned to face Jacques, who was now standing before them, furious and wrathful, glaring with murderous eyes at the boy. "Do you hear me, boy!?" he roared when Enjolras did not answer at once. "Answer me when I speak to you! Where have you been!?"

At this point in his life, Enjolras was nearly as tall as him mother, but his father continued to tower over him as the giant Goliath towered over the shepherd boy David. Indeed, Jacques was the huge, powerful, strong, reckless, raging warrior Goliath, and Enjolras was the young, innocent, untrained, small, weak shepherd boy David. Yet, this shepherd boy was brave and he was not afraid. David was capable of doing great and terrible things. This innocent child became a great man of war. In the end, David best Goliath.

Jacques was several times taller, larger, and perhaps stronger than his son. He was hateful, brutal, merciless, and unrepentant. He hit Enjolras nearly every time he saw him. Because of his father, Enjolras's fair and pure skin was almost always bruised in more than one place. Even still, Enjolras was not afraid of Jacques. Now, as his father stood before him, screaming at him, threatening him, raising a hand to strike him, Enjolras did not recoil. He did not flinch. He did not seem even to notice the hand that was about to strike him.

Enjolras looked at his father for a moment, his eyes dark and cold but smoldering with hatred: the burning anger that he had been forced to keep caged inside of him for so long, for if he let it out it would only make things worse for him and for his mother. Enjolras did not fear for himself. Only for his mother. He hesitated a moment for this reason but the replied anyway, "What does it matter where I have been? You do not care about me."

Even as he was speaking these words, Enjolras expected a heavy blow from his father's fist to follow them. He was right. As soon as Jacques had perceived what the boy had just said to him, Enjolras felt his father's hand slap him hard and violently across his already-injured face. The strike hurt, and then stung, and then throbbed. Enjolras could feel his heart pounding in his temples and his wounded flesh, bringing a new wave of pain with every beat. The mother let out a panicked cry, but Enjolras did not cry out. He did not flinch. He did not recoil. He stood silently before his father for a moment, only his face turned away from him, and his eyes closed as the pain hit him, coursed through him, and then faded. A moment later, without even a word, he opened his eyes, turned his face forward, and looked up at his father, once more.

As Jacques raised a hand again, probably to strike the boy a second time, the mother attempted to throw herself between this man and her son. Enjolras, however, would not permit such a thing. He would not allow his mother to take a blow in his place, the way she did when he was a child. He would not let her protect him anymore. He would take a beating for his mother, but he would not allow her to take one for him. Now, he was the protector. So when his mother tried to step in front of him, Enjolras, never taking his eyes off of Jacques, stepped forward also, keeping his body in front of his mother and easily but firmly using his arm to push her back behind him.

At once, Jacques was in his face, screaming at him again, "You wretched little bastard! Never talk to me like that, do you understand!? This is my house, and if you want to live in it then you will respect me, do you understand!? Answer me when I ask you a question! Now answer me: where have you been!?"

Even as this man roared at him, his face, red and deformed in his anger, only inches away from Enjolras's own, his eyes possessed and crazed in his hatred, his breath vile, reeking of alcohol, and hitting the boy's face like a violent, hot, and disgusting wind, Enjolras stood before Jacques like a stone statue, still and unyielding, unwavering, unafraid, never once recoiling, never once flinching, never once looking away from the blazing eyes that glared straight back into his own. Even with this new series of abuse and threats thrust upon him, Enjolras hardly appeared concerned and much less did he appear afraid. He hesitated a moment and did not say anything, and it was apparent in his eyes that he was deciding whether or not to answer.

This made Jacques even more furious, and before Enjolras even had a chance to see it coming, his father struck him again, this time punching him in that same wounded eye with a powerful hand that was clinched tightly into fist, a fist that was so hard and strong as stone. Enjolras, caught off guard, did stumble a few short steps backward, but he did not cry out. It was his mother, again, who let out a cry of fear and pain, as if this blow had hurt her and not only Enjolras, and again, she attempted to throw herself between the man and the boy, but again, Enjolras still recovering from the assault held her back. Enjolras had not, in fact, recovered fully even when Jacques seized him by the collar of his shirt, seemingly effortlessly, recklessly, and madly threw the young boy across the room with one swing of his arm, and slammed him up against a wall.

Enjolras felt his head hit into the wall; his jaw smashed together, rattling his skull; he felt the pain crush through his head like waves brutally rolling over and breaking upon rocks on the cost of a stormy beach; for a moment a black void blinded his eyes, and he could not see; he tasted blood in his mouth; and when he opened his eyes, Jacques was only inches away from him, towering over him, still gripping the front of his shirt and pulling it up around his neck so that it would choke him with one, pinning him against the wall with his other hand, and screaming in his face with toxic breath and lethal words. Enjolras, however, did not bother to listen to any of the degrading names that his father spat out at him or any of the words that were pronounced, at all, until the man shouted, "You have been out with those scum, again, haven't you!? With those _traitors!"_ Anger and volume rising in his voice, he continued to yell like a man crazed with madness or possessed by the Devil, "You go out and continue to betray this nation! You rally with the traitors of France! You are a traitor, and a rebel, and a disgrace to us all! You have deliberately disobeyed me! Have I not told you to stay away from them! Have I not forbidden you to take any part in this nonsense! I have made it very clear that anyone bearing the name Enjolras does not believe in the Revolution!"

As Enjolras watched his father raging like a storm before him, listened to him yell at him in a voice like thunder, felt the pain coursing through his body like the strikes of lightning, tasted the blood in his mouth like the poisoned rain, he could not feel fear but only anger, only hatred. There was another storm brewing inside of Enjolras's own soul. The skies had been darkening ever since Enjolras came into the room and saw Jacques yelling at his mother. The winds had quickened, the rain began to fall, the lightning was beginning to spark in behind the clouds. Now, Enjolras could hold it back no more. The storm was about to erupt and burst forth. It would be treacherous, and it would be terrible. Enjolras's mother had taught him to love, but his father had taught him to hate. Yes, Enjolras knew how to hate. A child the age of twelve, there was far too much hatred in this boy's heart. His mother had taught him to be good, but because of his father, he was capable of being terrible.

He felt his hand clinching into a fist, and he was about to strike back, to hit this moster, to hurt this man for all of the times that he had hurt his mother. But then his mother stepped in the way, and Enjolras forced his hand to relax. As much as he wanted to do it, he cous not. Jarques angrily pushed his mother behind him again and Enjolras glared at his father.

He knew that he had to remain silent, for his own sake and, only of importance, for the sake of his mother. He knew it. But he could not do it. He could not remain silent in the face of such injustice. Before he could restrain his own tongue, Enjolras glared at his father, fire and fury in his eyes, darkness and hatred in his soul, and he cried out in outrage, "Then, what am I supposed to believe in!? Do you want me only to believe in the things that you believe in!? You do not believe in anything!"

"That is enough!" Enjolras heard his mother's panicked voice shout, as she stood behind Jacques and struggled and failed to pull him away from her son.

Even as much as he disliked to disobey his mother, Enjolras would have ignored her and continued to speak… if Jacques's fist had not silenced him instead.


	3. Chapter 3

PART III

The Mother and Her Son

Enjolras was pushed rather forcefully into his room, and hardly a moment later, he heard the door closing behind him. He stumbled a step forward and then turned around in time to see his mother violently locking the door, closing them in and Jacques out. The door locked, and at once, his mother turned suddenly around to face him. "You mustn't ever speak out to him, again, do you understand me?" were the first urgent and angry words that shot out of her lips, but Enjolras knew that she was only angry at him because she was afraid. She was afraid because her husband was hurting her son, and she was afraid because she thought that, one day, Jacques might get so angry and so crazed that he would kill him.

Enjolras did not answer her but let out an angry sigh and turned away from her, glaring darkly and furiously across the room, his lungs racing in his anger, his eyes smoldering with the fire of hatred. His mother stepped toward him, grabbed hold of his wrists, pulled him toward her, and ordered, "Look at me!" Enjolras obeyed.

When he turned to her, his mother she perceived that her son's face was that of a slave, a prisoner, and of a warrior. It was dark, hard, and cold, like stone, the face of the slave who has been beaten and mistreated so often that he no longer cries out under the pain of the lash but remains silent, as silence is his own small form of rebelling, of not surrendering, of showing strength and pride. His face was bitter, spiteful, vengeful and hating, the face of a prisoner who has been locked in a cold, dark, disgusting cell, weighed down and bound by heavy chains, mocked and scorned by the "righteous" men for so many years that he has become resentful and angry, he keeps his emotions locked up and hidden inside of him, securing like the cell that secures him, and they boil and burn over the flame of his hatred, and he longs for the day when all of this fury will break free, causing destruction and vengeance. Yet, most of all, his face was that of the warrior who boldly and courageously fights on in the battle even when he is a boy against a giant, even when his weapon is a stone against a sword, even when he has been wounded, even when he sees his friends falling around him, even when he knows that he cannot win, even when the sky is dark and hope is lost. Even then, he continues fighting. Bloodied, bruised, injured, and wounded is face, yet he did not care. In his eyes, one can see the strength, the passion, the will, and the courage that burns like fire. This warrior is willing to fight until the death. He is willing to die for what he believes in.

This was the man that the mother saw standing before her now. This was the man that she saw in her young son. It frightened her. "You have got to stop standing up to him!" she suddenly snapped at him. "Stop arguing with him! Stop disagreeing with him! Do you understand me?"

Enjolras let out a sound of outrage and of disgust. He pulled his hands away from his mother's grasp. Instead of answering her question or even acknowledging that it had been asked, he cried out almost harshly at her, "Why do you even stay with him!? I do not understand it! Why do we stay here!?"

Enjolras knew that his mother was taken aback by his words. He could see her struggling to find a reply from a moment, but she had none. "Because he is my husband," she finally said, and her voice was so calm that she almost sounded at easy. Like Enjolras, after living with Jacques for so many years, she had learned to hide her emotions and her fears. She kept all of her emotions caged and hidden inside of her, as did Enjolras. But her son could see through this cage too clearly. A man comes to know the heart of someone he loves.

A moment later, his mother's face darkened with concern as she looked at the bruises, wounds, and blood on her son's face. She took a step toward him and reached out her hand to gently touch his face. But, before her figures could so much as brush his skin, Enjolras abruptly turned his face away and stepped backward. "He abuses you, and he hates me!" he cried, raising his voice and shouting in fury. "He does not treat you as his wife; he treats you as his slave! I do not understand why we stay here! We cannot stay here any longer! We must leave!"

Enjolras continued to shout until his mother came forward, gently took his hands in her own, and turned her face to look upon him. His muscles stiffed, and he almost pulled away from her another time. But he did not, because he could see the sorrow and the pain in her eyes. Her face was sad and dark, her eyes were woeful, and the wet glint within them told Enjolras that she was struggling to hold back tears. At once, he felt a deep regret come into his heart, but with it even stronger anger toward Jacques, who mistreated and disrespected his mother, who was so much better than he, who received so much less than she deserved. Hardly ever had Enjolras seen his mother cry. She was a strong woman, but her son was her weakness. She could not bear to see him hurt. Yet when she spoke, her voice was still strong and brave, comforting and soothing, gentle and loving—the way she had always spoken to him even when he was a small child, and he would cling to her for protection and comfort, she would hold him tightly to her chest, wrap him in her arms, and whisper quiet and comforting words as she gently stroked her figures through his long blonde hair.

Enjolras's mother was a great women, he had always thought from the time that he was an infant. She was so strong, so brave. Even as Jacques so mercilessly abused her and struck her the way that he did, even as she was forced to raise her child alone, even as she lived every moment of every day in fear of her husband, she was not afraid. Never did she give in. Never did she give up. Even in the face of pain and death, she never surrendered, she never stopped fighting. Never did hide in the night or morn the rising sun: she faced each new day with courage and with strength. Never did she sit in pity for herself and weep: if ever she shed a tear, it was for her son not for herself. Never did curse God for cursing her: she remained faithful to Him, and she trusted her life and her son's to His keeping. Enjolras admired her, and he looked up to her. When he was young, he wanted to be like her. Now, above all else he wanted was to protect her. He had always loved her.

His mother let out a heavy sigh, looked into her son's eyes, and asked of him as bravely as she had always been, "And where would we go?"

"Anywhere!" Enjolras answered at once. "Anywhere is better than here! Anywhere where we can get away from him!" he cried, struggling to keep his voice calm and struggling to keep himself from shouting. It was difficult. He always tried to be good, and patient, and gentle like his mother, but he could not deny to himself that he possessed the same fiery anger as his father. His mother had taught him how to love, but father had taught him how to hate. Indeed, Enjolras could hate. He hated his father as much as the angel hates the devil. On more than one time in his life, Enjolras had looked into the hating and possessed eyes of his father and had perceived that he was looking into the face of the Devil, himself.

She let out a soft sigh and shook her head. Now, Enjolras's mother seemed so calm and composed that, had he not seen them himself, he never would have guessed the events that had happened only minutes before. "Where would we live?" she asked him, in the manner that a mother asks a question to her child only to prove to him that his solutions are only dreams in a cruel world of reality. "How would I feed you?"

"You will not have to feed me!" Enjolras could not help but cry out as if this was the most outrageous and obvious thing that he had heard her say. "I will take care of you! You know that I will! I am by far old enough now, mother! I am not a child anymore; you do not need to protect me anymore! I can work now! I _want_ work! I can provide us with enough money to support us both, you know that I can!"

As he said these things, his mother, although Enjolras knew that she really was listening, did not seem to be considering what he said. Turning her back to him, she had gone across the room to retrieve several folded cloths and a basin of water, and she had placed the cloths upon the foot of the bed and the water on the floor below it. Just as he was finishing speaking, she turned back to look at her son. Returning to his side and taking him gently by his wrists, she said, "I know that you can, but I will not allow it."

"Why not!?" Enjolras started to shout, but before he could even get out these words, his mother went on, "I will not allow you to provide for your mother. You are my son, and I will continue to care for you. Whether you like that or not." When she said this, Enjolras let out a very frustrated sigh and looked abruptly away from her, but he remained silent. "You will not work, now. In a few years, _when you are old enoug_h, you will go to school. And you will—"

"Go to Paris and leave you here alone with Jacques!?" Enjolras interrupted her, unable to stop himself. "There is no chance! I will never leave you alone here with that swine! I do not understand why you stay with him! What does he give to you!? Nothing!" Enjolras let out another enraged sigh, and then he spoke in a voice that was much calmer but burned with hatred that could still be heard concealed within it. Even when a fire is hidden from sight, one can smell the odor of the smoke that it emits.

What the boy said was solemn, grave, ominous, and dark. There was a strange forebodingness in his words, as if he had seen a vision of this grave truth that he knew would someday come to pass. Upon hearing him say this, although she tried not to allow it to show upon her face, an icy chill fell over his mothers flesh and a dark sensation of dread into her heart. Enjolras's words were these: "We need to get away from this man before something terrible happens. Then it will be too late."

"Oh, come now," his mother said to him, her voice suddenly firm and hard. "That is enough." She took him by his arm, quickly led him across the room, and ordered him to sit down. Enjolras obeyed and did not resist. Without another word, but with conspicuous anger burning still in his fiery eyes, he sat upon the edge of his bed. His mother first gave him a clean rag and told him to hold it to his nose, of which much dry and dark blood had clumped beneath and of which was still bleeding slightly. Then she kneeled down on the floor before him and began to soak another cloth in water. She continued, "We are not leaving. Jacques is my husband." Looking up to meet Enjolras's eyes she said, "And he is _your _father. You must learn to respect him."

"I do not know how to respect him," Enjolras grumbled through clinched teeth, as he roughly and forcefully pressed the cloth to his nose, trying to atop the bleeding but only making the blood flow and the pain worse as a result. Still he added, "I hate him as much as he hates me."

His mother frowned, and she let out a burdensome sigh as she rung-out the cloth in her hands, causing some of the water to fall back into the basin below it. For a moment, she was silent, but then she went on to say in a soft voice, "You should not hate. Most of all not your father. The Lord tells us to love even those who disrespect us."

Enjolras did not answer. He cast his gaze upon the floor, as he tried not to let her hear him let out the curt breath as he dismissed this idea from his mind. Enjolras loved his mother. He loved God. He tried to obey his mother, and he tried to obey his Father in Heaven. But he knew that he would never love Jacques. He hated Jacques for everything that he was and everything that he was not. He hated him because he was greedy, selfish, dishonest, arrogant, lazy, because his heart was hard and his soul was dark, because he struck and beat Enjolras, and most of all because he so terribly mistreated, abused, disrespected, and disgraced his mother.

He did not hide this well enough, however, because his mother knew exactly what he was thinking. She looked up at him with a stern face and said, "As he was hanging by His hands and feet, Jesus forgave even those who had mocked him, tortured him, and nailed him to a cross to die."

This time Enjolras did not attempt even to hide the truth, and he told her at once, "The Christ Jesus is over a hundred—a thousand times—better than any man could ever be. Especially me."

His mother's face did not change. "That does not mean that you cannot try to follow His example." For a moment she was silent as she finished soaking a cloth in clean water and ringing it out. Then, she again cast her eyes upon her son's wounded and bruised face, her voice softened in compassion and in sadness, and she said, "I know that it is unfair, my son. You know that you deserve so much more than this. I am sorry." Her voice dropped to an almost desperate whisper, as she was desperate for her son to understand, and she spoke these last words, "But… but I am only trying to protect you. You know that?"

Enjolras was silent for a moment as he looked with a steady gaze into his mother's large brown eyes. Her face was beautiful, but now there was a dark bruise forming just below her left eye. _She deserves so much more_, he thought coldly and bitterly. _She is the one who deserves more, not me. _He slowly lowered the cloth from his nose, which was still bleeding. Then he let out a burdensome sigh, trying to obey her, trying to be less hateful, trying to let go of the fury that coursed through his blood like poison and of the hatred that was always smoldering in his soul like the never-ceasing fires of hell. Then he answered her in a quiet but strong voice. "Yes, I know."

He could see relief fall over his mother's face when he spoke these words. She let out a soft sigh, and she felt the sudden impulse to embrace her son, her boy, her baby. But, no. Not yet. First she looked into his eyes, took him by both of his hands, held them tightly in both of hers, and said in a clear, strong voice, "Listen to me. You must promise me that you will never stand up to him like that again. You must never challenge him. You must never intervene for me." She said this not because she had any respect for Jacques, but because she loved her son. Like she had told Enjolras to try to do, this woman tried to love her husband. She tried to respect him. As the Lord commands one to love their enemies. But she hated Jacques nearly as much as Enjolras did. She hated him, because of the way that he mistreated her son, the way that he ignored Enjolras, disrespected him, hurt him, abused him, and tortured him, the way that he deprived her son of the joys of childhood, of the happiness of a family, and of the love of a father. She was afraid of Jacques. She lived in terror everyday, and she was afraid, most of all, that he would hurt her son. She was afraid that, if Enjolras continued to challenge him, one day Jacques would kill her son, as he had always promised that he would do since Enjolras was a baby.

Thinking of this, she became even more afraid, tightened her grasp on his hands, and said to Enjolras, "Promise me."

Enjolras did not promise. He hesitated. He continued to look his mother in her eyes, but he did not speak. If he made this promise, he knew that he would break it. Enjolras was an honest boy, unlike his father who lied and cheated in everything. Enjolras tried never to lie. Now, if he told his mother that he would not step in to protect her from Jacques, risking even his life if he had to, he knew that it would be a lie. He remained silent.

But then, a look of fear and despair came into his mother's eyes, and she cried, "Baby, promise me!" Pleading, begging, she went on, "Please! For me. I know that you are trying to protect me, but I do not need protection from my son. My husband will not hurt me. I can care for myself. The best thing that you can give me, my son, is this promise. Please…"

Enjolras let out a heavy sigh and said simply and honestly, "I will try."

His mother let out a soft sigh, and he could see relief coming into her face again. "Promise me," she said again.

"I give my word."

At last, she was satisfied. A greater look of relief came over her face, a smile came upon her lips, and she let out a soft sound, almost like a sob, but Enjolras knew that his mother was too strong to cry. She quickly got to her feet, came forward, and taking her son into her arms. He returned the embrace, opening his arms and wrapping them her, and he held her close and safe, as if to protect her from her fears and from harm. In this moment, Enjolras could feel the warmth of his mother's body passing into his own and with it the love that she had shown him ever since he was born, the love that he felt so strongly for her, also. Even after this promise that he made, he knew that he had to protect her. He loved her too much to let Jacques hurt her. She was the only person that he loved. She was the only person that he had in his life.

As his mother hugged him close to her, her face over his shoulders, he could not see her face. He could not see that there were tears in her eyes. He did not see her hands trembling, her pained face, or the fear in her eyes as she cast them up toward the ceiling, as if to gaze into Heaven. For a long moment, longer than Enjolras was expecting, she held him very tightly, clutching him securely in her arms, cradling the back of his head in her hand, holding him in a very close and strong grasp, as if she was afraid to let go of him, afraid that she would lose him if she did. As if she wanted to hold him close to her while she still could. Before it was too late. At last, she released him. By this time, she had already forced back the tears in her eyes and blinked them away. Enjolras never knew.

Before his mother went to kneel on the floor again, she gently took her son's face in her hands, leaned toward him, and placed a soft kiss upon his injured cheek, kissing him very softly and very gently because she was afraid that she would hurt him more. Enjolras hardly reacted. He did not stiffen because of pain, and he did not relax because of comfort. He remained sitting still upon the bed, his face remained unchanged, and he let her kiss him. When she drew away to look upon his face, he looked met her eyes, but he did not smile. His face was still dark, and angry, and sad. But in his eyes, there was still strength, still courage. As this woman looked upon her little boy, she again perceived that she saw the face of a man, a slave, a prisoner, a soldier, and a warrior. Dread—but even pride and admiration also—came into her heart as she realized that this young man was a fighter. He would never stop fighting for what he believed in.

"Now," she said after a moment. She retreated back down to the floor and took a wet cloth into her hands. "Let me see you… Let me see where he hurt you…" Enjolras remained still and silent as his mother examined the injuries on his face, carefully cleaned out any open wounds and held cold rags them to stop them from bleeding, gently held a cloth to his nose for quite some time before it finally stopped bleeding, and gave him cold cloths to hold against the bruises on his face. Then she asked him if he was hurt anywhere else, and Enjolras said no. She frowned at him skeptically. "Are you certain?" she asked.

"Yes."

At last, a smile spread across his mother's lips, and her face brightened with a faint but strong light of happiness. For a moment, she sat back and gazed tenderly and lovingly with a face like an angel upon the face of her son, admiring and adoring everything that she saw, as all mother love their children with such great pride and with such wondrous joy. She let out a soft, easy, happy sigh, and she said, "My son… You have grown up so fast. And you are so strong. So brave. So handsome…"

Her voice had changed to become lighter, easier, and happier. It warmed and softened with tenderness and with love. This was the way that a mother should always be able to speak to her child. Enjolras's mother often spoke this way but only when she and he were alone. When he was a child, when she would teach him how to write and read, when she would read to him from the Bible and teach him about God, when she would tell him stories at night, and when she would stay with him as he fell asleep, gently stroking his back or running her figures through his hair, and singing to him in a voice so beautiful that even the angels might have came to listen to her song. Only when they were alone were they both at ease, were they both safe, were they both free.

"Although…" she said after a moment, tilting her head as she gazed upon his cold, hard face, "I do not recall having seen you smile in a very long time."

Enjolras hesitated a moment, his face not changing, and his soul not yielding. But the love that he had for his mother was greater even than the hatred that he had for his father. A moment later, he allowed his heart to lay down the exhausting burden of hatred that he carried, and a small hardly perceivable but still present smile appeared upon his lips.

The smile on his mother's face brightened, and she nodded in approval and in gladness. "That's better." She rose to her feet still smiling, and she approached her son. He rose to his feet as well, and they stood before each other, face to face, eye to eye, heart to heart. "I love you," she finally said in a voice so soft it was almost a whisper. "I love you… my baby."

"I love you, too, mother," Enjolras answered just as quietly.

Then, they were embracing each other again. They were holding each other as tightly as they could, trying to comfort, protect, and hide the other. They were both trying to help the other. Enjolras and his mother were both strong individuals. But at this moment, Enjolras realized that they were stronger when they were together. As they stood there embracing, they were like to pillars standing together, working as one to hold up the foundation of the heavy stone around and above them. They were stronger when they were together. But if one of these pillars is taken away, the other cannot hold a building on its own. The foundation cannot stand and the stone falls in ruins.


	4. Chapter 4

PART IV

Rebellion in the Streets

It was December of 1825. In only three weeks it would be Christmas, and in the town of Uzès, snow covered the earth and was falling heavily from the sky, which in the fading light of day and in the reflection of the snow, appeared to glow through a pale pink veil. It was Saturday evening. The last lights of the sun were setting below the white horizon, the moon and stars had already risen, and darkness was falling over the earth. The night was cold in the snow and in the wind of the winter, the air smelled of snow and of burning fireplaces, and the snow continued to fall and condense over the frozen earth. Perhaps, the world was at peace, but there was turmoil in the streets of Uzès.

Despite the cold, despite the snow, despite the wind, even despite the constables, and the inspectors, and the officers came at them, waving angry hands, and raising threatening clubs, a large mass of people had gathered in the street out front of the church of which they all—the people and the police alike—would be seated together listening to the priest conduct mass the next morning. This congregation had started out as a meeting of only a few young men, had grown into a crowed of several, and then to many, had eventually turned into a rally, and was now on the verge of becoming a riot. The people were shouting, crying out in despair and in hope, in triumph and in anger, calling for action, demanding freedom, chanting, "Vive la France! Vive la Révolution!" As the hearts and souls of the people began to burn in the sparks of rebellion, the police had arrived and had ordered them all to settle down, clear the street, and go home. They tried to put out the flames that were just being kindled. They wanted to smother the small flame of this candle before it could grow into an inferno.

A very handsome young man, perhaps in the early years of his twenties, stood upon the snow-dusted surface of a stone ledge so that he was elevated above the crowed. It was he who had started the rally, he who had spoke before the people to provoke courage in their hearts and passion in their souls, he who would be willing to lead these people at the expense of his life. When the police came, many people began to back away, their bravery and their certainty waning and fading, but this man did not waver. In fact, he stood up taller, straighter, prouder, and stronger as they approached. He opened his lips and called out in a loud voice so that his words could be heard above the crowd and the chaos, through the snow and the wind, and by all of the officers around them: "They will never give in! They will never stop fighting! This war is one that will not be finished until all chains are broken and all slaves are set free! Vive la France! Vive la Révolution!"

When the young man shouted these words, it was as if the waning flame of the fire had suddenly erupted again like the bust of lightning that cracks the sky and shakes the earth. At this point, the rally intensified and began to grow. As if all fear had fled away and had been forgotten, the people pressed on, they did not back down, they did not recoil. They continued to chant and call for freedom. The police drew their clubs, and in a desperate attempt to end all of this rebellion, one of them struck a rallying citizen. This was, perhaps, the worst thing that the young officer could have done. The anger, the fury, and defiance of the people heightened greatly. The police began to strike more people, knocking some of them down into the snow. Then some people began throwing snowballs and stones at the police. At length, one of the inspectors drew a gun, aimed it into the mass, and bellowed in a voice that he made angry and brutal in order to hide his fear, "Enough of this! All of you return to your homes now, or I will pull this trigger!"

"Shoot," an unexpected voice answered at once, shouting out boldly and fearlessly. When heads and eyes turned, they found themselves looking upon the brave young man who had begun the rally. Their leader. "Shoot," he said again, just as certainly. "Let us all die, and let us all face the judgment of God. All men die. Die today or die tomorrow. Die a slave or die free."

This young man was the strength, the courage, the hope, the spirit of the uprising. When he said these words, so certainly, so bravely, so powerfully, there was not a man who heard that did not feel something moving within him. The crowed let out a loud cheer, and nobody, not even the weakest amongst them, backed down. When they were together, they were strong, and the young man standing above them was the rock on which the foundation of this structure stood. As the riot continued to grow and as more weapons continued to be drawn, the young leader stood upon the stone wall, above all of the others, in clear view of all eyes and in clear range of all guns. Yet, he remained standing where he was, still and strong like a statue of stone, not trying to hide, not trying to protect himself, not trying to defend himself. The words that he spoke were truthful, and he was not afraid to die.

At last, the gun sounded. The people knew not who had pulled the trigger. Had it been the inspector who had first threatened to do so or had it been one of the other officers? Had it been purposeful or in the chaos, in the snow, and in the cold had someone pulled the trigger by mistake? Nobody knew. Nobody cared to wonder. It did not matter. At this moment, cheers of triumph and shouts of rebellion turned into cries of fear and screams of terror, and the stunned and horror-struck people watched their young leader fall. He landed with his face down in the white snow, which immediately began to turn red. A riot of defiance was, at once, a frenzy of panic. For a long time, everyone was at lost: too outraged to flee, too afraid to fight, too devastated to do either. So they all stood around the body of their fallen leader, not retreating form him but nor going to him, and they watched him bleed as the last breaths of life left his cold lips, buried in snow. Then, a moment later, a man whom no one knew stepped forward.

If the first man had been young, this man was even younger, not even yet twenty. He was, perhaps, one of the youngest people there to witness this horrific event, yet he was the first to come forward. Without hesitating a moment, he went to the side of the fallen leader silently and surely as if unafraid. He sunk to his knees in the red snow beside the bleeding body, reached out his hands and firmly but carefully took hold of the man, lifted his face out of the snow, and turned him over so that he was looking up into the night sky. At this moment, those watching learned that the young leader, wounded and bleeding, was still alive.

As his face was lifted out of the snow, the dying man drew in a deep and sudden gasp, like one on the verge of drowning in a treacherous sea. For several terrifying and painful moments, he tried to pull air into his punctured lungs, which the bullet had cut through and which were rapidly filling up with blood. Blood which gives life but also takes life, which saves life but also condemns life, which is life but also is death. "Hurry! Somebody get a doctor, at once! Quickly!" someone shouted, and several men took off running for help. But it was too late. Blood was draining out of the wound and spreading over the young man's chest, soaking his clothes and staining them red, spilling out into the white snow, and coming up his throat as he began to painfully cough it out of his lungs. The man's face contracted in agony, and his hands weakly moved to clutch at his chest, as if to hold back the pain. For a moment, he remained gasping and struggling to breathe, his face in a grimace of pain, his body shaking, his teeth grinding, his eyes tightly shut, his hands grabbing hopelessly at his chest as blood continued to spill out of his fatal wound. He lay there in the cold winter night, cold in the icy snow, cold in the bitter wind, cold in the empty darkness, cold in the clutches of death. Yet, the wound in his chest burned as if his lungs and heart were on fire, the blood that spilled out all over his body was hot, and he was warm in the arms of the stranger that held him.

For the first time, this dying man realized that someone was, indeed, holding him. Despite the dangers of allying one's self with a fighter for the Revolution, someone was doing so now. The fallen rebel opened his eyes and looked up into the face of this person, and he found himself gazing into the fair face and blue eyes of a man—no, a boy—who was several years younger than even himself. How old was this boy? Sixteen? Fifteen? Certainly, of some youthful age. Yet, this was the boy who had risen of all the other men.

When the dying man looked up at this boy and their eyes met, it was as if they were silently telling each other the same truth, which they both understood in their hearts: The brave young man was fatally wounded, his lungs had been ruptured, he had lost too much blood, it was too late to save him, he was going to die. Yet, the face of the boy was like that of a soldier as he held this man in his arms and watched him suffer, watched him bleed, watched him die. His face was still. Calm. Yet, also there was compassion, sadness, and sorrow in his eyes. This man was going to die on this night, before his eyes, in his arms. Yet, perhaps, dying was not such a terrible thing. For the follows of the Saving One, death is sad only to those who are left behind on the earth. To those who are passing, it is the day of highest and utter most joy. When one passes out of slavery, of grief, of hardship, and of pain, and enters into the world of freedom, of joy, of beauty, and of holiness. Now, this young man who pass into the place where he could be free.

As this dying man looked up into the face of the young stranger who held him, he felt a deep sensation of relief come into his bleeding heart. His rapid and painful gasping for air slowed, and he let out a soft, easy sigh. He gazed into the boy's reassuring face and comforting eyes, and his body relaxed, stopped shaking, stopped convulsing. Then his darkening face lit up and a faint smile appeared upon his cold lips. He parted his mouth, and a thin trickle of blood began to slowly run down his chin. He did not seem to notice. He continued to look up into the boy's face above him and the dark sky that loom beyond. Through his dying lips, with his final fading breaths, a smile still upon his lips, he whispered in a voice so soft that only this boy could hear him, "Some people will rise. You will rise." Then, he let out one final breath and died.

Then, there was only silence. No one moved, or stirred, or made even the softest noise. At this moment, it was as if the all the world had stopped moving, all lungs had stopped breathing, all hearts had stopped living, and everyone and everything was now watching the fallen leader die in the arms of the stranger. A deathly, a ghostly, and a holy silence had set over the earth. The people must have been holding their breath, and the angels looming overhead must have ceased their song. The only sound that could be heard was the cold and hollow echoing of the wind as it rushed down the winter streets.

"Everyone get out of here!" one of the police finally ordered, breaking and shattering the silence like a lethal bullet hitting smooth glass. He stepped forward, holding a pistol—although not the pistol that had been fired—out in front of him. "All of you! Out of the streets! Clear out!" Confused, at loss, and terrified, the people obeyed. Some of them weeping, some of them crying out in fear, some of them too afraid to make any noise at all, they began to back away and depart, as the authorities ordered them to do. Hesitantly, the other officers, many of whom had been just as stunned and scared as the people, choked down their emotions and began to join in the effort to drive people away.

There was one man, however, who did not move. One young boy remained on his knees in the snow, still holding the lifeless body of the leader in his arms, still gazing upon the man's pale and cold face. Spotting the young man still sitting in the snow, not moving, not attempting to heed the commands of the police, an inspector marched toward him, planted himself in front of the boy and the corpse, and barked, "Everyone get out of here! That means you, too, boy! Boy! Are you listening to me!? Get up! Get off of the street!"

For a moment, the boy remained silent and continued to look upon the face of the fallen man in his arms, not even acknowledging that he had heard the inspector speak, which further added to the man's fury and outrage. When at last the boy did speak, it was in a low, angry, and defiant voice, and it was a single word that rekindled a dim spark of anger and of courage in the hearts of the people: "Murderer." Upon hearing this one word, many of the people who had been retreating stopped and turned their heads to watch this young boy who was not afraid to keep fighting.

"That is enough!" The inspector snapped after a moment. "Get up! Get off of the street! This is not murder; this is justice!"

"Justice!?" the boy cried, at once, and his voice now was loud, bold, courageous, strong.

For the first time, he looked away from the face of his fallen leader and turned his eyes to glare up into the face of the inspector. For only a fraction of a second, the inspector's heart dropped, his blood froze, and his flesh turned to ice, as if the icy arms of death had taken him into a straggling embrace. But then, the sensation had passed, and the man could not help but let out a sigh of relief. For a moment, only for a moment, the man had perceived that when this boy had looked up at him, his face was not his own but the face of the dead man. For only a moment, he feared that this boy was, in fact, the ghost of the dead man here to haunt and seek vengeance on the men who had killed him. But no. He quickly dismissed the idea as foolishness and folly. Yet, even as he continued to look into the boy's youthful face, into his angry and fiery eyes, there was no denying that there was something very much the same about them both: the anger, the defiance, the will, the courage, the fearlessness in their faces, their eyes, their souls. Perhaps, the disturbed inspector could not help but think for a moment, the soul of the dead man had not ascended into Heaven but had passed into this young boy so that the leader could continue to live and to fight for the Revolution.

"You say that this is justice!?" the boy continued, raising his voice to a shout, in which anger and hatred thrived and trembled like the wrathful thunder that rolls through the clouds in a storm. "This is not justice! This is murder! You have spilled the blood of the innocent! Stolen an incident life! What had he done to deserve this!? You are murderers!"

"That is enough!" the man shouted again, but anxiety was rising in his voice, because he could see that the words of the boy had rallied the people around them, rekindling the fires of defiance in their souls. Instead of leaving now, as the police had told them to do, the people were now coming back, coming to stand around this boy and their fallen leader in his arms, coming to stand and fight again.

The boy, gently putting down and letting the body of the dead man rest in the snow, rose to his feet and continued to shout, "This is not justice! This is not freedom! This is murder, this is slavery, and this is the work of the Devil, whom God gives courage to those who oppose!"

At these word, the fears of the people seemed to have been forgotten. Their leader had fallen, and they had been lost. But now another brave young man had risen to take his place, and they again had someone to follow. Now, they were strong again. Anyone who had been retreating was now back in the mass of people, shouting and crying out for freedom, standing brave and standing strong. "That is enough!" the inspector made one last feeble attempt to quite the people, but only in vain, as the young boy before him raised his voice and shouted, "Vive la France! Vive la Révolution!" and then, all of the people were chanting again, "Vive la France! Vive la Révolution! Vive la France! Vive la Révolution!"

The inspector looked frantically and fearfully at the people around him, coming in and rising like the tides of the ocean. He knew that they would continue to riot now. They would continue to fight. They would not surrender. Something had to be done. Something had to be done, at once, or else this riot might grow to become a revolution! A battle! A war! How much more blood would have to be spilt to end such an uprising!? Something had to be done, at once! Thinking and acting as quickly as he could, trying to end this rebellion before it grew too vast to control, the inspector reached for his gun. He drew it out in front of him, pulled back the hammer to load it, and aimed the barrel directly at the chest of the boy, this new leader, standing hardly a step in front of him. The shot would be impossible to miss. Impossible wound without killing.

Again, the people fell silent, and again the world seemed to stand still. This time, even the snow had stopped falling. All eyes were now fixed on these two opponents: the inspector aiming a gun and the young man who stood defenselessly before him. The people's heart began to turn dark and cold as fear and dread filled them. Was there to be not one but two deaths today? Were they now to suffer the loss of yet another leader? Was this cold winter night to make two martyrs instead of one?

When this man aimed a gun at him, the boy froze, but not in fear. He stood still, silent, and strong before this gun, not trying to retreat, not trying to defend himself, and he looked directly into the eyes of the man who threatened to take his life. The man stared back to the eyes of the boy, and despite the cold of this winter night, there was sweat upon the inspector's forehead. Struggling to keep his voice even and fearless, he said, "Back down now. All of you get off of these streets, as you were told. All of you go home." He swallowed and then finished, "…Or I shoot you."

Then one might have been able to hear his own heartbeat. The silence was so deathly, so piercing, so lethal… It was like the silence that looms over a graveyard during the darkest hour of the night, when one can scarcely venture into the cemetery for fear that he might disturb the slumber of the dead sleeping in the earth beneath their graves. Now, all of the people, conflicted, lost, and terrified, were watching the young man, waiting to see how he would respond. If he obliged to this inspector, then who would they have to follow? But if he did not… was this alternative not several times worse? The people held their breath as they waited in terrible anticipation and suspense, some hoping that the boy would back down and save himself, some hoping that he would remain strong and stand for the Révolution, but most too afraid and conflicted to know what to hope for. For either way this young boy chose he could not win.

The young leader never looked away from the man's eyes, and his face revealed nothing of what he was thinking. So when he finally opened his lips to answer, no one knew what to expect. Yet, the boy had decided, and when spoke he spoke with certainty. "Shoot me."

A wave of disturbance rolled through the crowed now, some people cried out in fear, some yelled angrily at the inspector in protest, some raised their voices and shouted, "Vive la Révolution!" His decision made and pronounced, the boy only stood there and continued to look into the inspector's eyes as he waited for him to make his own decision. He had told the man to shoot him, yet even with the increasing turbulence, the inspector hesitated, and he did not pull the trigger. It is one thing to shoot a man at a distance, to shoot a man during a war, or to shoot a man who is not looking into one's eyes, but to take the life of a boy who is standing only a step before him, looking straight into his eye, defenseless and weaponless is another. If the man pulled the trigger, he knew that he would be called a murderer. Perhaps, he would even call himself a murderer. God would call him a murderer.

When the people saw this man hesitating, they began to cry out louder in triumph and in victory, the courage and certainty in their souls heightened greatly, and the inspector could see that they would fight even stronger and wilder if he did not do something. If he let this boy go without punishment, then they would believe that they had won the battle, they would think that they could stand up to the law and get away with it, they would continue to rebel and revolt, and the uprising would grow larger than what can be contained. His finger tightened on the trigger for a moment, but looking into the angry yet innocent eyes of this young boy, he still could not pull it. Yet, he had to do something! Acting as quickly as he could, he drew out his club, raised it, and brought it down, striking the boy across his face.

Many people let out gasps and cries as the club hit him with a sound like the cracking of a whip, but the young man who had been struck did not let a sound. He stumbled backward, and his hand went to grasp his injured face for a moment, but he recovered quickly. Almost as if he was accustomed to receiving blows such as these—but this preposterous thinking could not have been so—he quickly regained his footing and turned back to the inspector who had struck him. When he raised his face, there was a gruesome gash across his cheek bone, and blood like red teardrops was beginning to run slowly down his face. As if ignorant to the wound, the blood, and the pain he stared again into the eyes of the man before him. Now there was something new in the boy's eyes, and as the inspector looked into them, he could understand clearly as if the boy had spoken these words aloud: _"Why did you not shoot me? I told you to shoot me, but you did not. Why? Will you not shoot me? No. You will not shoot me."_ This angered the man, but even more it scared him. The rebels were winning! This had to be stopped!

"Get out of here! All of you!" he ordered again, stepping threateningly toward the boy.

But the young man did not move. He stood motionlessly before him, crossed his arms before his chest, and said in a calm clear voice, "Vive la Révolution."

The inspector, becoming panicked and furious, raised his club again and delivered another violent blow to the young man's face, knocking off his hat so his long blond hair began to whip violently around his face as the bitter wind rushed past him and splattering blood across his face. "Enough!" the man kept shouting, screaming. "Enough from all of you! Back down! Get out of here! All of you!" Before the boy had even recovered from the previous blow, the inspector was raising his club to strike again, not because he wanted to hurt this young boy but because he did not know what else to do, and the crowd—chanting, screaming, throwing rocks and ice—now seemed to be on the verge of a battle.

At last, after the third powerful blow, this young boy was knocked off of his feet. As he fell he made an attempt to catch himself, and as he landed on his hands and knees, he watched his bare hands sink into red snow. For a moment, he did not move. He stared down at the red blood all around him in the white snow. The white snow, which was so pure and clean, and the red blood, which was so cruel and so terrible. At this moment, it was as if he had suddenly awoken and taken in the true horrors that were happening around him; as if he had awoken and realized that this dream, this nightmare, that he had been roaming in was, in fact, reality; that this was real; that he was not dreaming; that a man had just died; that he had watched him die; that the man had died in his own arms; and that he was now lying in the corpse's blood.

As he stared numbly down at the red fluid around him, at the bloody snow that was melting on his hands, a deep feeling of dread and emptiness came into his gut, tightness pulled in his chest, and icy frost came to form over his heart. For the first time, seeing this blood made him suddenly feel very insecure and very anxious. For the first time, he was afraid. Even deeper fear and horror came into his soul as he slowly, reluctantly, grudgingly raised his eyes. Then he saw the dead man lying on the ground before him, so close to him that he would hardly have to reach out a hand to touch the cold, lifeless body. The man's body rest still in the snow, where the boy had left him; his flesh was pale like the snow and grey like the darkness of the night; his head was turned to the side so that the boy could see his face; and the dead man's dark, seeing-less eyes were still open, gazing emptily into the world, and fixed directly on the young boy before him. At once, the boy could hear this man's haunting final words speaking in his mind, "Some people will rise. You will rise." Then, he realized that it was snowing again.

Someone behind him grabbed him by his arm and yanked him violently to his feet. His mind still lost in some far-off world, he instinctively pulled away from this harsh grasp and turned around to face his assailant. For the moment that was too late to react, he saw the inspector raising his club to strike him again. But before this man could bring down the club with that sound like a whip, a sound far more sudden, far more thunderous, and far more terrible broke through the night. Everybody froze, or jumped, or gasped, or screamed. A second gun had been fired.

Panic and horror seized the hearts of the people again, and their eyes darted to look at this boy, expecting to see him, bleeding and a bullet in his heart, fall to lie in the snow beside the body of their fallen leader. When they looked at him, his face was pale and dripping in blood. Yet, he remained on his feet. His heart froze, and a moment later it was racing painfully in his chest, pounding in his ears, and his body was trembling. But the bullet had not touched him.

"Silence, all of you!" a voice, strong, powerful, and fearless bellowed over the panicking crowed. All eyes turned and came to rest upon the man who had shouted. There was something strong about him that made all who beheld him shutter and tremble, as if they were standing in the presence of a mighty and powerful king who had come to bring wrathful judgment upon them all. He stood still within the people like stone statue, his body tall, stiff, and strong, his face hard and cold, and his eyes betraying no emotion. No one recognized him. No one knew him. He must have only arrived in this street a moment before, because none had seen him at all until this moment. He was a Controller-General, which meant that he had full authority over all of the inspectors, all of the constables, all of the citizens, and which meant that he had full control over the events, the actions, and the punishments that would happen tonight. The pistol was still grasped tightly in his hand, and a thin cloud of smoke was still emitting from the barrel, rising as is drifted into the bitter winter air. But the gun was aimed up into the sky, not into the people. The bullet had not pierced flesh but only darkness.

The people fell silent for a moment as they stared with awe and with fear at this man before them. The Controller-General was still for a moment longer. Then, without a word, he lowered the gun, held it by his side, and began walking quickly and briskly through the people, who fearfully parted to get out of his way as he went. He went straight to approach the boy, who still stood before the now frozen club in the hand of the panicking inspector. The Controller-General brushed abruptly past this inspector, casting a dark, disapproving glare upon him and saying in a low growl, "Inspector Perusse, you may retire. Your services are no longer needed here."

Inspector Perusse had immediately lowered his club and taken a step backward when he saw this officer approaching, and now he bowed his back, too another step back, obviously intimidated and embarrassed, and muttered in a whisper, "Yes, Monsieur Herriot."

Without another glance at Inspector Perusse, Monsieur Herriot turned his eyes to look upon the corpse still lying wide-eyed in the snow, and he gave instruction for some of the constables to return the body to the family of the deceased man. Then, hardly acknowledging their replies, he turned his back on all else and fixed his dark but fiery eyes upon the young boy standing before him. This boy he doubted was beyond his fifteenth year of age, yet he stood before him now, before police, before the law, before clubs, before guns, leading a band of rebels, injured and bleeding but still taking blows for the Révolution, risking his safety, risking his life.

Without wasting another moment, Monsieur Herriot stepped toward the boy. Although he did not recoil, the boy's muscles stiffened and he braced himself, expecting another painful blow. Instead of striking him, however, Monsieur Herriot grabbed him with a hand like an iron clamp, tight to the point of pain, around his arm and began to him across the street away from the people. As the Controller-General dragged the stumbling boy behind him, he raised his face, looked to one of the nearby constables, and ordered, "Bring shackles here." Monsieur Herriot came to a halt on the opposite side of the road, so that he and the boy stood still in the sight of by far beyond the rest of the people in the street. Then, at last, he looked into the eyes of the young rebel standing before him.

The boy stared silently back into this man's face for several long seconds, and all that could be heard was the cries of the wind. Then the faint rattling of chains as a constable, his head bowed, quickly approached these two adversaries, and without glancing up at Monsieur Herriot, took the boy by his wrists, slipped the iron bracelets over the young man's hands, and tightened the shackles around his wrists.

He looked down at the shackles that bound his hands. The metal was cold and frozen against his skin. His hands were pale but his palms and fingers pink from being in the snow. His hands, his wrists, the sleeves of his coat were covered in blood.

"What is your name, boy?"

He raised his eyes and found himself looking into the stony face of the Controller-General, who was looking upon him with a sharp and penetrating gaze. The young man hesitated for a moment, his mind still enslaved to the haunting images of the blood-covered man who had died in his arms. At last, he answered in a voice that was somewhat reluctant but still brave. "Enjolras."

Monsieur Herriot face did not change. Nor did his voice, which remained powerful and strong, calm yet there was clear anger with it, and he asked, "And how old are you, Enjolras?"

"I am fifteen."

Monsieur Herriot gave a curt nod. He had been expecting this. Turning his eyes to look past Enjolras and search the faces of the people in this street, as if looking for someone, he questioned this child again, "Where are your parents?"

"They are not here," Enjolras answered, at once. Monsieur Herriot opened his mouth and started to ask, "Do they—" but before he could even get out the words, Enjolras said, "They do not know that I am here. They had nothing to do with this. They do not support the Révolution."

Monsieur Herriot momentarily continued to look around the people in the streets, as to make sure that the boy was not lying and a father or mother was not going to come forward and defend their child. No one did. "Very well," he said at last, turning back to Enjolras. "They are at your home then, I trust?"

"Yes."

"You will bring me there. And the rest of you"—he turned to all of those who remained in the street watching this young boy be arrested—"will return to your homes. Enough blood has been spilt tonight. Do you wish for more to die, as well?" No. The Controller-General was right. Too much had happened tonight already. This was enough. It was over now.

_Almost _over.

Monsieur Herriot took Enjolras by his arm, and he, accompanied by two other constables, began to lead the young boy away. The rest of the police began to break up the crowd and send people back to their homes. But before the people parted, someone within the crowd let out a final cry. First one man shouted, and in only seconds, others began to join in. Soon, all of the people were chant in one brave and triumphant voice, one final cry of the night.

Everyone, including the constables, Monsieur Herriot, and Enjolras stopped and turned their heads to watch the people. Enjolras looked upon these people and listened to them crying out, raising their voices, strong and proud, into the night, raising their fists into the air, raising their hands into the Heavens, and he felt something deep and powerful moving inside of him, although at first he did not know what it was. Surprise and confusion, certainly. But much more also. Hope? Gratitude? Pride? Joy? Perhaps, all of these things, but most of all he felt amazement, wonder, awe. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Monsieur Herriot, who had also been watching the people, turned his head to look at him. Enjolras glanced up at him and met his eyes for a moment, and the man could see that this boy was just as surprised and at loss as he was. The officer looked out at the people one last time, let out a heavy sigh, and then turned his back on it all, continuing down the street and taking Enjolras away from the people who followed him.

What they cried was this:

"Vive Enjolras!"


	5. Chapter 5

PART V

Controller-General Herriot

Now, the sky was completely black, and the streets were lit only by the dim firelight or candlelight that fell through the tightly-bound windows of houses. The snow was falling more rapidly and more heavily than it had all evening, the snowflakes now large and wet and mixed with harsh fragments of ice. The wind also had grown faster and colder, crying and whaling as it flew down the streets of Uzès, like the spirits of the dead screaming as they are dragged down into the dark and icy chambers of hell. In three weeks it would be Christmas, but tonight none would have known this. The world seemed to have forgotten that its Savior was coming. It seemed tonight that there was no forgiveness, no redemption, no salvation, but only punishment, only condemnation, only damnation. The darkness of the night was like the despondent pits of oblivion, and the cold was like the bitter forlornness of being locked in chained and trapped in a jail cell. Like this lonely prison chamber, the streets were quiet, again. Only the sounds of the wind, like the moaning and wallowing of the condemned soul, could be heard.

Enjolras was cold. The child was wearing a coat but a coat much too light and thin for this winter, and beneath it he shivered and trembled. The coldness of this night cut straight through his clothing, flesh, and bones, and seemed to penetrating deep into his very soul. He felt that his stomach was empty and his chest was filled with ice, his heart hard, cold, and frozen. Ice. The wind was brutal and merciless to him tonight, chilling his body and bones, making him shiver, hitting his face continuously like tiny blades, numbing his cheeks and nose. The numbness was not so bad, though. It was the pain that made Enjolras cringe and grit his chattering teeth. The wind and ice, brutal and merciless, was like a knife cutting into the open wounds upon his face and cheekbone, penetrating into the raw flesh and making blood spill faster out of his wounds. Enjolras's bare hands were wet, and the cold, the wind, and the snow against his bare skin froze them to the point that he could no longer feel them or move them. The only sensation left within his hands and fingers was a dull, burning pain. The iron bracelets around his wrists, now frosted over in snow and ice, might have frozen to his skin; he could not say for certain, but it certainly felt that way. His hat gone and his head now bare, with nothing to shelter him from the cold or the snow, Enjolras was even colder. His ears were red and cold to the point of numbness and pain; snow and ice was entangled and frozen within his long hair; and his breath, emitting icy clouds into the darkness, was thin and trembled as he shook. The poor child was so cold, his body, his flesh, his bones, his heart, and his soul.

Enjolras had never felt so cold, so empty, so lonely, so anxious, or so vulnerable in all of his memory. He kept his head bowed as he walked, to protect his face from the wind as much as he could but also because he felt unable to hold his head high. So he watched his feet stepping in the snow as he walked. Looking down, he realized that not only was there blood on his hands and sleeves but all over his coat, and the sight of it made his stomach churn. Immediately, the frightful visions of that young man dying in his arms resurfaced in his mind and loomed before his eyes: the young man standing upon the stone wall, him falling to the ground and bleeding in the snow, dying in Enjolras's arms, his cold, lifeless face and his dark, seeing-less eyes staring at and watching Enjolras. The sounds of the guns haunted him, as well. And those last words of the dying man. _"Some people will rise. You will rise." _What did that mean? You will rise? _You_ meaning the people, or when the dying man said, "Youwill rise," was he speaking directly to Enjolras? He thought of this, and he shivered.

Enjolras had never seen anyone die before. He had never seen a body. He had never seen someone be shot or fatally wounded. He had never seen so much blood in his life. He had never touched anyone's blood expect for his own. Now, he was covered in the blood of a stranger who was now dead. It was strange. At the rally, when these things had first happened, Enjolras had, of course, been sorrowful for the injured and dying man, but beholding the gunfire, the blood, even death had not bothered him. Not until he had seen those cold, dead eyes watching him had he realized the horror of what was happening. Now, there was a hallow pit in his stomach and his chest, and he felt deep emptiness inside, he was very distressed and disturbed, and although he was trying to be strong, he was afraid.

He did not know what was going to happen now. These men would first bring him to his house; no doubt, to inform his parents that their son was a rebel and a criminal. But then what? He would probably be brought to the prison. Thrown into a cold, dark cell, cutoff from his mother, and trapped with criminals, rebels, thieves, and murderers. How long would he have to say there? Months? Years? Who could say? The law of France was not just. Sometimes an innocent man would spend his entire life in prison, be harassed, beaten, and abused, sometimes he would even be executed for a crime that he had never committed. Or for a crime as offensive as stealing a loft of bread to save a starving child.

Enjolras could see no other alternative. He would be thrown into jail to spend Christmas, to spend mouths, to spend years away from his mother. He thought this and a sudden pang of fear and sadness pierced his heart. The thought of being away from her, the only person whom he really cared about or loved, made his heart throb. But even worse than the thought of being alone in prison, was the fear of his mother being alone with Jacques. He could not leave his mother alone with Jacques! He had to be there for her! He had to protect her! If he was, indeed, sent to prison, he did not know what would become of his mother.

_"Perhaps, I will not be sent to prison,"_ he told himself, now desperate for any small hope. After all, had he really committed any crime? He had rallied with the people, but he had not harmed anyone, he had not thrown snow or rocks with many of the others, and he had not raised a fist to strike the inspector even in self-defense after the man had so brutally struck him. He had spoken out, because he had no other choice. After that young man had been murderer and had died in his own arms, how could Enjolras have lived with himself if he had remained silent? Enjolras had, in fact, only proclaimed the truth, spoken the words that had to be spoken, protested against heinous injustice. Yet, the law was not just, and in this country, proclaiming the truth was a crime.

Enjolras, for the first time, raised his eyes and glanced up at Monsieur Herriot, who was walking beside him, still holding his arm in a firm grip, which was not so much cruel but very strong. _Perhaps, they will let me go,_ he thought, dropping his gaze to watch his feet again. These men were, after all, bringing him to his house and not to a police station or to a prison. In this country, under this unfeeling law, Enjolras doubted that the authorities would have bothered to tell a boy's parents that their son had been arrested. They would have only discovered something to be wrong when their child did not return home that night.

Yes, perhaps, he would not be sent to prison. Upon thinking this, relief flowed into him and he let out a soft sigh. Only moments later, however, a new thought came into his mind, and a new dread came into his heart and twisted in his gut. Jacques. When the police arrived at the man's door, dragging along with them his son, beaten, chained, and arrested, and when they informed him that Enjolras had been rebelling in the street, disobeying an officer, disobeying the law, rallying the people, crying out for revolution, and leading a group of rebels, what would he do to him? Enjolras did not have to wonder. He already knew the answer.

Enjolras heard Monsieur Herriot mutter something to the constables accompanying him, but he paid no attention to this and he kept his eyes fixed on the ground. Only moments later, however, he felt the Controller-General take him by his shoulders and redirect him on a new course. Enjolras looked up and found that he was being led toward a murky glass door, over which were black metal rods, like the grate before a fireplace or like the bars before a prison cell. His heart darkened as he quickly recognized the police station. Perhaps, they would be sending him to prison, after all.

Monsieur Herriot opened the door and forcefully but not violently guided the boy inside. Enjolras could not help but let out a soft sigh as he stepped out of the bitter cold, the wind, and the dark and stepped into the warm room, heated and lit by a burning stove along with several candles. The two constables followed Monsieur Herriot inside and one shut the door behind them, blocking out the chill, and Enjolras found himself breathing more freely and deeply as the blanket of warmth fell around him and enveloped him. He was still shivering.

When they entered the room, the guards that had been stationed in this hall raised their eyes to see the police bringing in this young criminal. At once, trying to hide their surprise and confusion at seeing a boy so young in chains, injured and bleeding, they straightened up, bowed to Monsieur Herriot, and asked if they could be of assistance. Without a word, MonsieurHerriot shook his head and proceeded in leading Enjolras across the room.

He went without resistance, yearning for the warmth as they neared the stove. He was very surprised yet very grateful when Monsieur Herriot pulled up a chair in front of it and told him to sit down. He obeyed, and at once, relief came to him as his frozen body began to relax. For a moment, Monsieur Herriot disappeared out of his sight, and Enjolras remained in the chair, still shivering, huddling under his coat, and weakly rubbing his frozen hands in his lap in attempt to warm them and to wipe the blood off of them. A moment later, he felt even greater comfort as someone wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. He turned his head in confusion and was even more surprised when he saw that it was Monsieur Herriot who had done so. The Controller-General, however, did not look at him but continued past him. There was a pot of water heating over the stove, as the guards had been planning to make tea, but Monsieur Herriot took this pot and used the water to wet a clean cotton cloth. Then he returned to the side of the young boy and kneeled down on the floor in front of him.

Enjolras watched with doubt and bewilderment, unable to see why this man, this Controller-General who had arrested him, this police officer who hated rebels, would be trying to help him, knowing that such a thing could not have been so. Yet, Monsieur Herriot seemed to be doing just that. "Keep your head still," he instructed, and Enjolras, still at loss, obeyed. Then the man took hold of his face with one hand, his four figures and the palm of his hand cradling the boy's neck and the back of his skull and the man's thumb tightly upon those bones where the jaw meets the skull, just before the ear; hence the man took Enjolras in a hold that would not allow him to move his face, and at once, he felt that he was trapped. At once, as soon as this man touched him, every muscle in Enjolras's body tensed, his spine straightened, and his jaws tightened. At once, he was expecting this man to strike him or hurt him. Any adult man who had every touched this child had done so to hit him, to beat him, or to hurt him.

The Controller-General, however, instead gently touched a warm cloth to Enjolras's injured cheek and began cleaning out his wounds and wiping the blood off of his face. The warm water burned at first when it hit his icy flesh, and it hurt when the man touched the bruises and cleaned out the lesions, but only a few seconds later, his frost-bitten wounds relaxed beneath the wrath of this cloth, and relief came. There was no questioning it, now. Monsieur Herriot was helping him.

Enjolras sat still in his chair, utterly lost and confused, and afraid, still trembling in cold, still seeing images of the dead man before his eyes, seeing the blood, still hearing the gunshots, still hearing those words in his mind, _"Some people will rise. You will rise." _But the warmth of the stove and the blanket around his shoulders made him feel warmer and safer, a small comfort to his troubled heart. Without a word, the Controller-General cleaned the boy's wounds and held dry cloths to them until the cotton turned red and he replaced them with a new cloth. Folding over a piece of cotton several times, he pressed it against the gash across Enjolras's cheekbone and held it there for several seconds. At last he removed the cloth and, using his hand to turn Enjolras's face to the side, he examined the wound. "It is not very deep," he said at last, releasing the boy. "Ugly, but it will heal just fine. Should not even need stitches."

Enjolras, still lost and bewildered, skeptical and doubtful, and perhaps in some state of shock after witnessing the horrors of this night, slowly turned his eyes and fixed them on the man kneeling before him. Monsieur Herriot was looking back at him, directly into his eyes, and his face was unchanged. It was stern, solemn, severe. Yet, his eyes were hard to read.

"What in hell did you think you were doing, boy?" Monsieur Herriot broke the silence.

Enjolras only stared at him for a moment longer, unsure what he meant by this, unsure how to answer. He frowned as he opened his dry lips and asked softly, "What do you mean?"

"I mean," he repeated, his voice stony and angry, "what were you doing in the street with those rebels? Provoking rebellion? Leading an uprising? What were you trying to do? What did you expect to gain?"

Enjolras hesitated. As he stared into this man's dark and fiery eyes, he felt like a helpless creature trapped beneath the lethal gaze of a dangerous predator. "I…" he found himself beginning, and his voice sounded reluctant, weak, afraid. He paused, swallowed the lump in his throat, and said in a voice that was still soft but much stronger, "I will not remain silent in the face of injustice. I man was murdered tonight. I watched him die." A sudden flame anger igniting in his soul, he added darkly, "Your men killed him."

Monsieur Herriot did not respond, but looked at Enjolras in silence for several seconds, and it was clear in his eyes that he was thinking. But Enjolras could not tell what. "I know that," he said at last, never taking his eyes off of the boy. "Without orders to do so. Had I been there only a minute later, they might have shot you, as well."

Enjolras let out a soft sound of disgust and looked sharply away. "I do not doubt it," he muttered bitterly, anger and hatred rising in his voice. "They seemed to have no problem shooting the young man before me."

"Do you not realize that you could have been killed?" Monsieur Herriot abruptly questioned him, once Enjolras had barely finished speaking these words.

_Do you not realize that you could have been killed?_ Upon hearing these words, understanding and realization came into his heart for the first time. Yet, his face remained cold and his eyes remained dark, unreadable like Monsieur Herriot's. When at last he spoke, there was not a hint of doubt or regret in his voice. It was strong, clear, certain. "Yes." Just as boldly he added, "There are some things in this world that are worth dying for."

"And what would your parents have done when they learned that their son had been shot at a rally and was now dead?"

In contrary to everything that this man had said already tonight, which had very little effect on Enjolras, when Monsieur Herriot spoke these words, Enjolras felt that the cold and the darkness of this winter night had ascended upon his heart and an icy blade of dread and of guilt pierced his soul. If Enjolras had been shot, had been killed tonight, Jacques would have cared very little. He might even have been glad to be rid of his son, who he saw as no more than a bother and a burden, who he detested and hated. But his mother… His mother would have been devastated.

It was painful even for Enjolras to imagine, and as he thought of his mother weeping and whaling over his lifeless body, still, cold, and bleeding like the body in the snow, the guilt became overwhelming, almost too great to bear. She loved him so much. Her son was, in truth, the only person that she really cared about. She lived for him. He her was everything. Her happiness, her joy, her hope, her light, her sun, her day, her morning, and to her the stars that shine through the night. He was her entire world. To lose him would be to lose everything. If this woman lost her son it would destroy her, ruin her, break her to obliteration beyond repair. Enjolras knew this. He knew that if he were ever to die, the pain, the agony, the suffering that his mother would then have to endure would be a torture far more terrible than death.

When he had been out in the streets tonight, standing with the people, rebelling against the injustice of the crown, he had been thinking about the people, about France, about freedom, about the young man who had just been murdered before his eyes, who had died in his arms. He had not been thinking about his mother. If he had been, when that inspector drew a gun and aimed it at him, Enjolras did not think that he would have said, "Shoot me." Yet, he had not been thinking about her, and he had spoken these two small yet lethal words. Even as he said this, he did not expect the man to shoot. He did not think that the man would kill him. But he did not know. If MonsieurHerriot had arrived only moments later, someone might have pulled the trigger. Enjolras would have been dead, and his mother would be left alone with a grieving heart and a husband who abused her and tortured her.

Enjolras did not answer this question that Monsieur Herriot asked him. Instead, he lowered his eyes and found himself silently watching the flame of the stove rise and fall as it cast the warm glow amongst these people. For a long time, the only sounds that could be heard in this hall were the faint whispering of the fire and the low crackling of the logs. Then, at last, Monsieur Herriot let out a heavy sigh and rose to his feet. Enjolras continued to watch the fire for a moment in which he could hear the Controller-General's boots walking across the wooden floor before he shifted his eyes to watch him. He sat down behind a dark-wooden desk, dipped a pen into a bottle of ink, and began to write by the light of the candle flickering beside his paper.

Enjolras watched this man in silence for a moment and tried to understand, to discern, to fathom the mind and the soul of this man. MonsieurHerriot was not quite like any man that Enjolras had ever encountered before, most defiantly not like any law officer that he had ever encountered. He was, in many ways, like Jacques. He was strong, powerful, bold, angry, commanding, condemning. He spoke with authority and with pride. He pursued rebellion with wrathful eyes, and he sought to punish for it. Jacques, likewise, was all of these things. Yet, this man was very unlike Jacques. Jacques was reckless, rash, cruel, brutal, merciless, and hateful. Monsieur Herriot Enjolras did not believe to be. While the man was indeed angry, Enjolras could see no hate in him. While the Controller-General most certainly disapproved of Enjolras's behavior, but he did not seem to hate him for it. If he had hated him, he would not have helped him, would not have cleaned his wounds, gave him a blanket, or let him sit by the stove. If this man hated Enjolras, he would not have arrested him to end the riot and would not have stopped the inspector from striking him, but instead would have let the officers kill him. Had Jacques been there, he might have killed Enjolras himself.

"So what now?" he finally asked in a low voice as he watched the man's pen flow over the page upon the desk, no doubt describing the boy's crimes and inventing a punishment for them. "Are you going to send me to prison?"

Monsieur Herriot continued to write, finishing several more sentences before his pen came to rest and he raised his eyes to acknowledge the boy who had addressed him. He gazed at him for a moment without answering. Then, still in silence, he looked down at the page before him, took a moment to read what he had written upon it, folded it, and holding the paper safely in his hand, he rose from his chair. He again stood before the boy, looking into his eyes, before he answered. "No."

_No. _This word seemed too gracious and too impossible to be true. Yet, Monsieur Herriot had said it. Enjolras let out a soft yet great sigh as warming, saving relief came into his frozen heart, and he felt that much of his heavy burden of fear and guilt had been lifted off of him. Perhaps now he would be able to stay with his mother, and the very thought of this brought comfort and light to his troubled his heart and his darkened soul. He found himself saying a silent word of gratitude and praise to the Lord.

"Not this time," Controller-General Herriot went on. "You will return home to your parents, and they will be informed of the events that took place tonight. This time, I will leave you to their judgment. But if such events as these happen again, Enjolras, I will have no choice but to handle this as in accordance with the law. Do I make myself clear?"

Staring at this man with amazement but also confusion, relief but also doubt, gratitude but also distrust, almost expecting him to suddenly change his answer, almost expecting this to be some trick, Enjolras answered, "Yes."

"Very well," Monsieur Herriot said, nodding his head and slipping the folded paper into his pocket. "We best be leaving, then. It is getting late."

Enjolras rose from his chair. No matter what extent he attempted to do so, he could not understand this man. This man was a Controller-General, a high officer, defender, and tyrant of the unjust law and the heartless King of France, yet he did not seem unjust or heartless. He did not seem selfish, ignorant, or merciless, as Enjolras had deemed all men affiliated with law to be. In fact, this man had proven otherwise. He had proven that he was, in fact, altruistic, compassionate, merciful, and to Enjolras's great confusion, he had proven that he was just. The boy could not understand why this officer of the law would show any kindness or any compassion to him who had deliberately defied and rebelled against the law. He could not understand why this man was correcting him and scolding him yet, at the same time, showing him gentleness, mercy, and forgiveness.

The fact was that this controller-general who had just arrested him was behaving to Enjolras as more of a father than the child had ever known in his life. Enjolras never had a father. Jacques was not a father to him—the boy did not even call him "Father" but rather called him by his name, and he spoke this name at first with fear and dead and later with bitterness and hatred. To Enjolras, a father was no more than a man who ignored, neglected, and hated his family, who exploited, mistreated, disrespected, and disgraced his wife; who detested, struck, abused, and despised his son. This poor child did not even understand what it was to have a father. So when Monsieur Herriot treated him in this way, with firmness and authority but with respect and kindness, Enjolras could not understand it.

Controller General Herriot informed the constables that they would be leaving, and the men prepared to go. Then he led Enjolras across the room, but not before frowning at the bruising and wounds on the boy's face and telling him to see a doctor if he begins to feel ill. Enjolras already feeling ill, but that was due to the mental rather then the physical trauma that he had endured. One of the constables opened the door, and Enjolras was led out into the street. That piercing and merciless cold penetrate straight through his clothing and hit his flesh as he stepped outside, and at once, he longed to be back inside where it was warm.

"How far is your home from here?" Monsieur Herriot asked him, as began to shiver again.

"Not far," Enjolras muttered. "A couple of minutes."

"Come along then."

They started off again through the cold, dark, and snowy streets. As they walked, Enjolras vaguely perceived that the snow that covered pavement below his feet was beginning to turn into a layer of ice. It would be very easy to slip and fall. But he hardly noticed this. This did not matter. His mind was possessed by the thoughts and images of this night, of the people at the rally, of the man who had died, of his red body bleeding in the snow. As they got closer to his house—as he got closer to his mother, to her protection, and her love—Enjolras felt as if he was nearing a welcoming light, and he began to walk faster, hoping to get there sooner.

Not until his house came in view did he think of anything save for seeing his mother. Not until now did he think of meeting Jacques.


	6. Chapter 6

PART VI

Punishment

It was late. Looking into the world past the window of a house was like peering into the black gloom of an inky pool, in which whatever dim light was present was smothered and conquered by darkness. Snow and ice were now falling more heavily and more violently than it had all day. To be trapped outside tonight, homeless and on the streets without the warmth of a fire or the protection of a home, would be a death sentence.

Madame Enjolras was restless. Her heart was troubled, consumed by apprehension and dread. She was pacing around the house, feverish with worry, going from window to window only to looking through the glass and struggle in vain to see through the darkness and the snow beyond it. Her husband paid no mind to her, as Jacques was, as usual, slumped on the couch drinking and ignoring the world around him, but her son had not come home.

Enjolras had not come home. Perhaps an hour before sunset, he had gotten angry at Jacques for disrespecting his mother. They began to argue, then to shout. As voices rose so did anger, and the woman could see that Jacques was quickly on the verge of physically and violently attacking her son. That was when she had stepped in. Apologizing nervously to Jacques, she took Enjolras by his arm and pulled him out of the room. Once behind a closed door, she ordered him to stop speaking out, to stop fighting with his father. "I cannot be silent and let him treat you like dirt!" was all that he replied in anger and in disgust. He snatched a hat and a coat, which would have better suited summer than winter conditions, off of the hanger, and yanked open the front door. "He treats us both like dirt, and I am through with it!" Then, he had gone. Angry and hating, he had left the house and went out into the town.

This was not unusual. No longer a child, Enjolras saw his father more, he saw him mistreating him mother more, and he hated Jacques more and more everyday. He could no longer tolerate the injustices that he had been able to overlook when he was younger, he could no longer allow Jacques to order his mother around as if she was his slave, and he could no longer stand silent when he saw injustice happening around him—whether it was Jacques in his house or the tyranny outside of it. This made Jacques abuse and despise his son all the more, as the man hated many things, but above all he hated rebellion. Everything that this father did hurt, insulted, disgraced, and infuriated his son. Sometimes, Enjolras could bear it no longer.

Anger is dangerous, but hatred is terrible. Enjolras knew anger, and he knew all too well hatred. He knew too well how to hate. Enjolras hated nothing, not even the monarchy, so much as he hated his father. Sometimes, his hatred would become too great, boiling inside of him to become a fire so relentless that even the strongest sword of a king would have melted into liquid if touched by this hellish flame. Enjolras and Jacques could both, indeed, hate—this was the one thing that this father had taught to his son. Enjolras and Jacques were both, indeed, capable of being terrible. Had he known only this man in his life, perhaps, the boy would have ended up a very different man. He might have ended just as Jacques did, hating, spiteful, loathing, selfish, and greedy, his darkened soul and his hardened heart not caring for anything or anyone, not seeing, not believing, not loving. But Enjolras also had his mother, who was good, who was virtuous, and who was kind, whom he loved and who loved him, who taught him how to be a good man. So Enjolras was capable of being terrible but not so terrible as his father.

When Enjolras felt this terrible hatred getting a hold of him, rising up within him, and threatening to overtake him, he left. This was not uncommon anymore. At first, the boy only left the house on very rare occasion, but as he got older, these occasions were becoming more and more frequent. Now, he left at least four of the seven days each week, because he could not endure being with this man anymore, this man who hated him, who hated his mother, who hated everyone and everything that Enjolras cared about.

The boy's mother did not fail to notice this. Her son was absent from the home more and more. It troubled her. She came to understand that things had changed. She was no longer living in a home with an evil man and a child that she could protect and hide from him. Now, rather, she was living in a home with two men. Two men of utter opposites, of opposing natures, opposing virtues, opposing values, opposing beliefs, and opposing—combating—loyalties. Jacques claimed to be loyal to the king, but he was loyal to no one but himself. He was loyal to his drink, to sin, and to darkness. Enjolras, in the greatest of contrast, was loyal to the God of Truth; he was loyal to love; and he was loyal to his mother. Enjolras followed the Lord Jesus Christ, and Jacques served himself as he also served the Devil.

These enemies, the Light and the Darkness, are constantly, relentlessly, unceasingly, at war, and they forever shall be until the last day when the trumpet sounds, and every knee upon, above, and below the earth will bow before the triumphant Lord, who will stand in victory and in glory. The battle of the Lord and the Snake may be happening still today, yet the battle is already won. The Truth triumphs over the liar; the Light conquers the darkness.

Madame Enjolras knew that this life could only go on for so long. It was only a matter of time before something had to change, and something would change. Her son could not keep on living like this. She could not make him—she could not ask him—to live like this for another day. Yet, how could she let him go? He was the only person that she had, that she loved. Still, she loved him so greatly that she would sacrifice her own heart for his safety. Now, Enjolras was still only fifteen, but in the spring, he would be sixteen, and then he would be old enough to study in school. As much pain as it brought her at the thought of her son going to Paris and leaving her behind, everyday the truth was becoming clearing in her heart. It was only a matter of time before her son would have to leave. Yet, still, there was hope for a little while. She knew that it was Enjolras who would refuse to leave. He went away, but every time he left the house, he always returned. Before the sun set and the world fell into darkness, he returned every time. Yet, tonight was different. Tonight her son had not come home.

His mother knew that something was wrong. Enjolras would have come home before now if he had been able to. Something was keeping him from her. Something was wrong. Something had happed. There is a strange bond between a mother and her child, a bond which cannot be explained or understood. As if there is a supernatural knowing that connects one soul to the other, a mother can sense when something endangers her children. No matter the barriers, the walls, the worlds between them, keeping them apart, there are times when a mother knows that her child has been hurt. This bond is formed by something stranger, stronger, more powerful, and more unexplainable than man can understand. This bond is formed by love.

Now, Madam Enjolras knew that something bad had happened to her son, and the ominous shadow that loomed forebodingly over her heart told her that something even more terrible was yet to come. She went quickly to the next window, and looking out into the snow and the darkness that consumed the streets, her mind was flooded with the countless possibilities of the evils that could have befallen her son. In this terrible weather, he could have gotten lost and been unable to find his way home, he could have fallen on the ice and gotten hurt, he could have been trampled by a cart that had lost control on the frozen street, or he could have caught some illness and gotten sick—especially in this treacherous weather, and the coat that he had taken with him was not nearly warm enough! Remembering this, she began to worry that if her son did not return home soon he would freeze to death. She could not bear it any longer. She would have to go out and look for him, and not return home until she had found him. She made a decision and went to the wardrobe to retrieve her coat. That was when a knock came upon the front door.

Her heart leaped with hope but also with fear, and, at once, she ran to the door, did not hesitate to unlock it, and pulled it open. But it was not her son's face that greeted her on the other side. Instead, came into view the stern face of a Controller-General.

"Madame Enjolras?" the man presumed. His voice was hard, stern, and severe, yet not so cold as the winter chill that rushed through the door and into the house.

"Yes," she answered, her eyes wide and her face white. "What is wrong? Did something happen?"

"Tonight, your son was arrested after taking part in a rebellion." Monsieur Herriot informed her. He drew a folded paper out of his coat pocket, opened it to display the flowing script that covered the page, and held it out to the woman. Her hand accepted the paper, but for several seconds, she not even glance at it. Instead, she cast her fearful eyes past the Controller-General before her, and they fell upon the three men standing behind him: two constables and, between them, a young boy in shackles… her son.

Her heart dropped. Enjolras was hurt. There was blood on his coat. His face was pale and badly bruised, his eye blackened, and ugly cuts had opened upon his cheeks; but it was the vacant look in his eyes that made her fret most of all. Enjolras did not even look at her but kept his head lowered and his eyes gazing emptily across the snow-cloaked meadow that stood silently before the house. The usual confidence, the passion, the fire that could always be seen in his eyes was gone, and instead they were cold, dark, and empty, like a dusty casket that holds only bones—the flesh and the soul having long been absent from the body. She knew, at once, that her son was in great pain and great torment, mentally perhaps more than physically. Something terrible had, indeed, happened tonight.

"He told the police that his parents did not know that he was taking part in the rally," Herriot went on, and Madame Enjolras forced her eyes away from her son and beheld the man addressing her. "I have written for you on that paper the events that occurred tonight so you will know." Still too stunned and too scared to say a word, she looked, for the first time, at the paper in her hands and quickly glanced over what was written upon it. Not one detail was left out. It described everything, how the rally began, how a young man had been shot and killed, how he had died in Enjolras's arms, how he had stood up to the police, how an inspector had beaten him, how when the man held a gun to his chest, rather than oblige to him Enjolras said, "Shoot me." Enjolras was brave, and strong, and stubborn, and sometimes he was too willing too sacrifice himself for something he believed in or for someone that he loved. In this same way, rather than remaining silent when he saw injustice, he spoke out and accepted the blows of Jacques's punishment.

When she took her eyes off of the writing, she fixed them on her son. He still would not look at her. In fact, he was still looking out over the snowy field, trembling under his coat, his face white and his eyes empty. Now, she knew what had happened. Now, she knew what he had been through. Now, she felt even greater fear, concern, pity, and sorrow for her son, as well as anger, but most of all relief and horror, because she knew that Enjolras could have been killed tonight. At this moment, she wanted only to take him into her arms and hold him, comfort him, and protect him.

"I am releasing him without further punishment, tonight," Herriot told her, and the mother's heart signed in relief, "but if this happens again, I will have no choice but to imprison him for some period of time. I do not want to, but I will have to."

"I can assure you that this will not happen again," she managed to speak through her fear, and her voice was thin and trembling. The man nodded, clearly pleased with this answer, and he told the constables to remove the shackles from Enjolras's wrists. When they had done so, Monsieur Herriot nodded to them, as to tell them that Enjolras was allowed to go to his home now. At once, his mother opened her arms to him, and without a word, he went to her. Not saying a word, her face still pale and scared, she reached out for him, took him by his shoulders, brought him into the house to stand beside her, and held him at arms length, beholding with fear the wounds and bruises upon his face.

"I have already cleaned the wounds on his face," Monsieur Herriot told the woman after a moment. "They are not very bad. Your son will be just fine."

She turned her head to look at him, and their eyes met. "Thank you, monsieur," she said quietly. He nodded. Then, one last time, he looked Enjolras in the eye before he turned to go. They were about to leave, but a very loud, very angry voice suddenly stopped them.

"What is this?" Jacques growled, suddenly furious at the very sight of the police before his house.

"Jacques—" his wife began to say, failing to conceal her panic and her fear, but Jacques ignored her. He pushed her roughly out of his way, snagged Enjolras by his arm, pulled him away from the protection of his mother, and making him stumble, pulled the boy out in front of him. For a moment, Jacques glared with dark and wrathful eyes at his son, saw the bruises and wounds upon his face, saw the blood on his cloths… Then he turned his eyes to look at the police, who stood in a halt just beyond his doorstep, at Controller-General Herriot who was watching him with a cold face and distrustful eyes. Before he spoke even a word to this man or this man spoke even a word to him, Jacques hated Controller-General Herriot. He hated him, because in this one moment in which their eyes met, he could see that this man did not trust him, that this man opposed him, that this man would not hesitate to challenge him. Jacques hated nothing more than he hated rebellion.

"What happened?" Jacques asked, speaking directly and angrily to Monsieur Herriot. Within his voice one could hear a terrible, wrathful, and condemning accusation, as if he were ready to punish for a crime before he even knew what this crime was. "What has this boy done?" Monsieur Herriot frowned at him, for a moment, not speaking, not answering, not trusting the man that he saw standing before him. Realizing this, Jacques's anger increased like spark erupting into flame, and he cried out in accusation, "Did he kill somebody!?"

"No," Monsieur Herriot answered, at once. His voice was calm, yet he was surprised that any father would be so quick to accuse his son of such a heinous crime with such little reason to do so. "You are Monsieur Enjolras, I presume?"

"Yes," Jacques snapped, annoyance and disgust apparent in his voice.

Monsieur Herriot, who either did not notice or did not care that Jacques was becoming so impatient and so irate, nodded. He was silent for a moment longer as he looked at Jacques, looked at the woman, and then looked at the boy, thinking and considering. Then, he said calmly, "I have already spoken with the boy's mother. She now has a description of the events of tonight."

At these words, Jacques's anger and hatred rose to a degree much higher and much more lethal. That this man had the audacity to say these words which belittled him, disrespected him, and insulted him, which however vaguely suggested that _his wife_ was in some way above him or deserved more respect than him, enraged Jacques to the point that, in his fury and in the intoxication of the alcohol that poisoned his veins, he almost stepped out into the snow to approach this man, to fight him if he had to. Instead, however, he turned to his wife, snatched the paper out of her hands, and read the crime description himself. What he read infuriated him so greatly that he barely managed to keep himself from hitting his son, at once, in front of the police, not caring if they saw it. Besides, there was nothing that they could do to stop him. There was, under the law of this country, no law that forbade a man from punishing his wife and his defiant, insubordinate son. Jacques restrained himself, however. He would deal with his son as soon as the door closed between him and this bothersome Controller-General, who was watching him with a dark, hard, and mistrustful gaze.

"And you have not punished him for his crimes?" Jacques snarled, addressing the officer again.

"He has already been punished," Monsieur Herriot said flatly. "Do you not see the wounds and bruises on his face? The boy has been through quite enough punishment tonight."

Jacque spat out the door onto the snow. "Very well," he said in anger. Then, in a tone that chilled Enjolras's blood, brought dread to his heart, and fear to his soul, Jacques finished, "Thank you for your services, but now you have completed your job. I will take care of my son." Then, taking a brutal hold of Enjolras's arm, gripping it so tightly that it hurt, he slammed the door.

"Jacques, please!" his wife cried as soon as the door had closed, and she stepped in front of her husband. "Please, don't do this. I will handle my son—"

"Get out of my way, woman," Jacques snarled at her, and his voice was like the low, hungry roar of a lion that is about rip apart and devour the helpless lamb that is his prey. When the woman did not move, Jacques angrily and recklessly pushed her aside and stormed down the hallway, dragging Enjolras behind him.

"Jacques, please!" he could hear the woman shouting behind him. "Leave him alone! He is only a child!" But he ignored her. He dragged Enjolras to a small room where there was a coach, a cushioned chair, and a fireplace, and he pushed him inside so hard that Enjolras was knocked over and fell on his hands and knees. While he was still on the ground, his father kicked him as hard and as brutally as he could manage, slamming his boot into the boy's side, inflicting a direct and painful blow to the lower right side of his ribcage. Jacques was trying to punish him, wanting to hurt him.

First, the blow was like being hit by an incredible force, like an ocean wave that crashes down over someone, knocks him over, forces the air out of his lungs, and then leaves him trapped underwater for several seconds in which he cannot breathe. It was not until these seconds had passed could he start to feel the real pain: aching, throbbing, pulsing… Enjolras was knocked over, off of his hands and knees and onto one side so that he was lying against the wooden planks of the floor, while the other side of his body was pounding with pain. Even still, he immediately struggled to get up; but before he could, Jacques kicked him again, just as hard, in his stomach. The impact was like a war hammer being swung by a mighty fighter slamming into his abdomen where his delicate and essential organs and intestines were protected only by feeble muscle and soft flesh. For several seconds, which seemed to Enjolras a much longer time of torment, he found himself helplessly gasping and choking, unable to breathe. Just after he had barely managed to draw a shallow breath of air into his lungs and before he had time even to recover from this previous strike, Jacques dealt a blow that was even worse yet, kicking his son full force in a place that violated all grounds of appropriate, respectable, honorable, humane, and moral principle.

Enjolras was, at once, utterly and completely helpless, lying on his side, bent over in excruciation, breathing rapidly and heavily, cringing and gritting his teeth, struggling not to moan or cry out. The pain was terrible, almost unbearable. His chest began to tighten, a tight knot formed in his throat, and it was hard to breathe. A moment later, his stomach began to ache and churn, he felt as if there was poison rising up in his body and making its way toward his throat, he became very nauseous and dizzy, and he feared that he would vomit. The pain hit first, but this was almost immediately followed by the horrible feeling of being weak, powerless, humiliated, and violated. Still only moments later, all of these emotions turned into anger and hatred.

Although the pain was horrible and it had not subsided in the least, although the pulsating waves of nausea and lightheadedness continued to assault him and Enjolras still felt that he would throw up or pass out, his pride, his anger, and his hatred would not allow him to continue to lie on the floor in defeat for another moment. His hatred was the kindling the fueled the fire of his will. Enjolras hated Jacques, and with the pain feeding this flame which hungrily and angrily devoured it, he hated Jacques, perhaps, now more than ever. Even in this state of weakness and torment, Enjolras would not allow his father to degrade him, humiliate, and defeat him on this shameful level. At least, not without putting up a fight. At least, not without rebelling.

Forcing himself to ignore the pain, at least, as much as he could, Enjolras moved his hands and began to push himself up off of the floor, but before he could get up, his father violently grabbed him by the back of his neck, digging his thumb and figures into it so harshly that it caused him great discomfort and pain. Jacques dragged him a few steps farther across the floor, and threw him forcefully against the wall. Enjolras felt the back of head slam against the wood behind him, he momentarily felt the pain of the impact, his vision darkened and blurred, and the next thing that he was aware of, Jacques was leaning over him, pinning him against the wall, and screaming in his face, calling him degrading and insulting names, cursing him and swearing at him, and threatening to hurt him, threatening to kill him.

"What is this!?" Jacques finally screamed, and he shoved the paper that MonsieurHerriot had given to his mother in Enjolras's face. "This is what you have been doing every time that you leave this house, is it!?" he thundered, but his father's voice was far more terrible and far more terrifying than thunder. "Rioting!? Rebellion!? Betraying your country!? Disobeying your father!?"

"Jacques!" Enjolras heard his mother shout from somewhere behind his father. "Jacques, stop!" But the wrathful man did not even seem to hear her. He glared at Enjolras for a moment as if he was too disgusted and infuriated even to speak; hatred, loathing, and detestation upon his face and a murderous look in his eye that appeared as if this man was considering killing his son. He settled instead, for now at least, to punch the boy in his face, purposely hitting him overtop of the wounds and bruises that were already causing his flesh to throb. Then, he released the boy, rose to his full height, and kicked him another time in his ribs.

Enjolras fell forward and barely managed to catch himself before his face hit into the wooden planks of the floor. For a moment, he remained in this position: the lower half of his body against the ground and his trembling arms holding his chest and face a short space above it. In pain, his vision unclear, and his mind in a dazed state of stock, he watched as blood like red raindrops fell onto the floor below him. This moment ended when Jacques's foot fell heavily over the small of Enjolras's back, bruising his flesh, hurting his spine, and forcing him to the ground. His bleeding face hit against the wooden planks of the floor.

Enjolras did not move. He could not move. His body trembled, his lungs raced, his heart hammered painfully against his ribs, and sweat had broken out all over his injured flesh. All that he could feel pulsing through his entire body, consuming his entire being, was pain. It was as if the pain that had risen up within him and now needed to escape. Whether through fainting, vomiting, screaming or crying, Enjolras had to escape. All that he could do was lie there helplessly and trying to fight off the urge to all of these things.

He felt his father's strong hand grab him again, and before he could resist, Jacques violently ripped his coat and then his shirt off of his body. Suddenly started and angered at this man stripping him of his clothing, Enjolras, attempted to pull away from him. He was surprised when Jacques let him go. Now naked from the waist up, his chest, sides, and stomach bare and exposed, already bruising and swelling in the places where Jacques had kicked him, Enjolras weakly clambered onto his hands and knees, crawled away from his father, and then holding onto the side of a chair managed to stand.

As quickly as he could, he turned to face his father, not knowing exactly what to except but expecting, without doubt, a physical and painful assault of some type. He was wrong. Jacques was on the other side of the room, his back turned to Enjolras, walking away from him, heading toward the doorway. At first this confused Enjolras, because he thought that Jacques was leaving, letting him go. Then, a sudden pang of fear hit his heart and dread began to twist painfully within his bruised belly, as if his intestines had turned into snakes and were fighting, trying to devour each other, as Enjolras realized his father's true intentions.

Beside the fireplace, there rested, standing up against the wall where it leaned, a set of fire irons, among them a long metal rod with a wooden handle on one side and a sharp, angular top, like the head of an arrow, used to prod the cinders of the fire and prolong the life of the flame. Jacques had no intentions of leaving the room, but he went to the side of the fireplace to retrieve this instrument—this weapon. At once, Enjolras knew why. Jacques would use this metal rod to beat him, to strike, flog, and mutilate his bare skin, beat him like a slave, a prisoner, a criminal. Jacques would enforce the punishment that he thought the police should have given this boy, the punishment that he deemed acceptable for a traitor of France.

Enjolras looked at the metal rod in father's hands, and he became even more certain that he would throw up. His heart began to pound faster in his chest each second, and he could hear himself breathing rapidly and heavily as fear began to take over him. Jacques, the rod gripped tightly in his fists, turned around to look wrathfully at his son, and Enjolras took a small step backward, but he bumped into the wall behind him, and he found himself corned. There was no where for him to go. There was no way for him to escape this man or this punishment. He would have to endure it. He would have to endure the pain. The agony…

At this moment, realization came over Enjolras, just as it had at the rally when he realized that a man had died before his eyes. Yet, this time it was different. This time it did not put fear, panic, and weakness in Enjolras's heart. Rather, his heart hardened and became cold, panic turned into somber stillness, fear turned into hatred, and his soul became like stone: strong, impossible to break. It was as if the dark clouds that roll in over the blue sky, that turn the world dark and grey, that veil the earth in a shadow of gloom, that make the faces of the people appear as cold and lifeless as those of stone statues, had just rolled in over this young boy's—this young man's—soul.

_So be it,_ Enjolras thought. Jacques could strike him, beat him, hurt him, torture him, and there was nothing that the boy could do to stop him. He would not fight back. He could attempt to fight this man, but he could not win. He could not win this battle that had been raging between the father and the son since the day Enjolras was born. Enjolras could not win, but still he would not let Jacques win either. Enjolras would fight, but not with his fists, not with weapons, not with pain, with force, and with brutality, as Jacques did. Enjolras had his own way of fight, his own way of resisting, his own way of rebelling. He rebelled with silence. Jacques would beat him, and Enjolras would not resist. He would not try to flee. He would not try to get away. He would not cry out. He would endure this punishment, and he would remain strong through it. He would not give Jacques the satisfaction, the pleasure, the triumph of knowing that Enjolras was afraid, of seeing him in pain, of hearing him scream. To scream, to show pain, to show fear, to show weakness, would be to show Jacques that he had won. Enjolras would never allow himself to fall so low below this man, this wretch. He would never let Jacques win. As Jacques began to approach him, Enjolras looked into he man's eyes and glared at him. Then he drew in a deep breath, planted his feet firmly against the floor, and braced himself for the pain. Jacques raised the metal rob, just as the inspector had raised his club before he hit him.

"Jacques!" Enjolras heard his mother scream. He had barely taken his eyes off of his father, and his mother was already there, there to save him, stepping between him and Jacques, pushing her son behind her, holding out her arms to protect him. "Jacques, stop it right now!" she shouted.

"Get out of the way, woman!" Jacques ordered her, holding the rod at a still behind his head but ready to bring it down at any moment.

"There is no chance, Jacques!" she snapped at him, the fury in her voice combating and defeating that even in Jacques's. Enjolras had never heard her speak like this before. So angry, so confident, so defiant. Then she was screaming, "If you think for one second that I am going to step aside and let you torture my son—"

"Move, woman! I will not hesitate to hit you, too!"

"Hit me, Jacques! You'll have to kill me before I let you touch him!"

Then Jacques brought down the rod, which had been meant for Enjolras but instead had struck his mother, because she had stepped in front of him to take his place. Enjolras saw a blur as the rod fell, he heard the impact as it hit into something, he heard her let out a soft cry, and then his mother stumbled backward, holding her face where the metal had hit her. Before he had time to react—before anyone could react—Jacques grabbed the woman by her arm, pulled her away from Enjolras, and dragged her violently across the room, screaming in her face. "Look at me!" he bellowed, like a man insane and mad, or like a man possessed by the Devil. "Woman, look at me!" Scared and dazed by the sudden blow, Enjolras's mother raised her face and her red, tear-filled eyes to obey. As soon as she had done so, Enjolras—as all of this had happened so quickly and so unexpectedly, he was still standing stiffly against the wall, confused and started, helpless to do anything to protect the woman—watched Jacques smack his mother in her face so violently that she let out a weak cry and fell to the floor.

Enjolras knew how to hate. He had hated Jacques since he had been an infant, barely able to walk. He had always hated Jacques. He knew hate too well. But never, _never,_ had Enjolras felt anything like the hatred that coursed through him now. It was as if his soul had suddenly burst into fire, not fire like that in the stove, which can be smothered and put out by man or by water, but fire that was deadly, poisonous, toxic, inextinguishable, untamable, wrathful, vengeful, and alive, seeking and pursing to kill, to murder, fire like that which presides in hell, itself, fire that is the wicked conception, the very soul of the Devil. Enjolras suddenly and instantly forgot about all of the pain in his body. He could not feel it anymore. Now, all he could feel was this hatred, which consumed him and possessed him.

Before he knew it himself, he was running across the room toward his father. "Jacques, don't touch her!" he shouted, and the voice that cried out was not his own. It was a voice dark, hating, and terrible. When he reached him, Jacques was still standing with his back toward Enjolras, standing over his mother, yelling at her. Enjolras seized him by the back of his coat and pulled him back, ripping him away from her with astonishing force and power, and throwing him in the other direction. Jacques stumbled several steps, but as soon as he found his footing, he immediately rounded on Enjolras, surprised, outraged, and infuriated and even more so to realize how strong this small boy had become. As soon as he turned, saw his son standing before him, the look on his face like that of a warrior in a battle who is ready to fight, to charge fearlessly into battle, the look in his eyes like that of a murder who is ready to kill, ready to devour.

Jacques raised his hand to strike the boy, but before he could, for the first time ever, since he was a child, since he was a baby, Enjolras struck his father. First, Enjolras hit him, hit him as hard as he could, tightening his fist so it was like a stone and driving it with all of his power into the center of Jacques's body, just below his chest and just above his torso, so it would knock the wind out of him. Enjolras knew that this was one of the most painful blows to experience, because Jacques had hit him here so many times. Then, while Jacques gasped for a moment without air in his lungs, Enjolras brought up his knee and thrust it into the man's stomach, which Jacque's had also done to him many times before.

Two strikes. That was all. These were the first two and the only two strikes that Enjolras had ever used against his father. This was the only time that he ever fought back, and it was not to protect himself but to protect his mother. Enjolras dealt these two blows, but that was all. Jacque's was stronger than he was. Enjolras could try to fight him, but he could not win. His son hit the man twice, and then the battle was over. Jacques overpowered the boy. He grabbed him by his throat, forcefully closing his firsts around it, cutting off his airways and choking him. Then, he threw him down onto the floor. For a moment, Enjolras tried to get up, but his father kicked him. He remembered hearing a loud cracking noise, and then feeling a pain so terrible that he was unable to scream, unable to see, unable to think. Then, his father kicked him again, and then hit him, and then took up the metal rod and began to beat him, slamming the iron tip against his bare skin, his back, his sides, his chest, his face.

The last thing that he could remember, Enjolras was lying on his back, unable to see anything. He could hear his mother was screaming. He could feel Jacques beating him. All he could understand was the pain.


End file.
